


Murder by Monster Mash

by Peregrine_Lost



Category: Doctor Who, Psych, Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Castles, Crack, Ensemble Cast, Gen, Monsters, Murder, Superwholock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:57:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peregrine_Lost/pseuds/Peregrine_Lost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two brothers and their angel, a madman with a box, the world's only consulting detective, and the world's only consulting fake psychic all receive a mysterious yet compelling invitation: an all-expenses paid trip to an obscure and supposedly haunted castle in Scotland, with the promise of a six-course dinner... and a murder that only they can prevent. Or, failing that, that only they can solve. </p><p>Superwho(psych)lock by way of Murder by Death, Scooby Doo, a half-remembered episode of The Monkees, and the 2012 GISHWHES prize. Featuring as many surprise cameos as sense will allow. Only requires basic secondhand tumblr knowledge of shows involved (at most) to make it accessible to those not in all four fandoms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Invitation

**Psych Offices, Santa Barbara, California, USA; March 11th**  
    It was a dark and stormy night. Which is to say, it was probably a dark and stormy night somewhere, but was, in fact, a sunny morning in Santa Barbara with a 15% chance of clouds in the afternoon. Which is to say, it was in fact afternoon by the time Shawn Spencer rolled out of bed, though it was still sunny and remained Santa Barbara. This came as a bit of a disappointment to Shawn, who had been woken from an exciting dream about being a space pirate moonlighting as a movie star by someone firmly shaking him.  
    "Shawn! Shawn!" The voice pierced his unconscious world in the form of a pterodactyl that was apparently on a first-name basis while attacking his head.  
    "Mwuh…?" groaned Shawn. He opened his eyes a crack and groggily tried to focus them, trying to manage the transition from saving Cyndi Lauper from a vicious dinosaur to being roughly handled by a clean-shaven Wayne Brady. As he shook off the fragments of sleep, he realized it was Gus. Weakly, he batted away his friend's hands. Narrow bars of brilliant sunlight were streaming in through the half-closed blinds. He gave the unwelcome real world a general look of disapproval, then centered it on his human alarm clock. "Gus, why are you waking me up at the crack of--"  
    "It's 1:45, Shawn," Gus admonished.  
    "-- at the crack of 1:45? You know I need my beauty rest."  
    "It's not my fault you were up until 4AM playing Minecraft." To emphasize his point, Gus picked up a stuffed Creeper from the detritus lying around the couch and coffee table, and chucked it at Shawn's head. It bounced off ineffectually, but Shawn winced and acted wounded anyway.  
    "Okay, we've established it's nobody's fault. WHY are you waking me up?" He rolled himself halfway into a sitting position on the office couch, yawning. They'd pulled a lot of late-nighters lately for cases, and Shawn hadn't seen reason to stop even when there wasn't one. Plus, it was the only way he could justify his midnight snack food purchases as a business expense. Speaking of which, there was a Snyder's pretzel peeking out of the folds of his Snuggie. Breakfast of champions. He ignored Gus' look of distaste as he ate it.  
    "We have mail." Gus had on his serious face. Shawn was not a fan of that face, which was too bad, since it was his default one. He preferred the "jazz hands" face. Heh. Jazz hands. Shawn momentarily forgot what they were talking about, but managed to come back to it.  
    "We also have a mailbox which that mail goes into, and it can stay there indefinitely unless it's a new Hammacher Schlemmer catalog. Is it? Have they got the hover-recliners I suggested?" Shawn's face lit up.  
    "No, it came express mail. International. You're going to want to read it right away." Now Gus was wearing his 'serious business' face, which could mean anything on a scale of from 'why did you eat all the Combos' to 'stop poking the dead body'.  
    "Okay, now I'm equally suspicious and intrigued." Shawn quirked an eyebrow. Somewhat reverentially, Gus handed him a large, matte black envelope, with the lettering and a delicate border of entwined vines done in gold ink. Shawn ignored where Gus had already neatly sliced the envelope with a letter opener, and instead ripped the side to pull out the contents. He took no notice of Gus' eye-roll.  
    Inside the envelope was something like a large greeting card, in black and gold like the envelope. Shawn noted the thick cardstock, silky under his fingers. Expensive. The front of the card read "An Invitation", in a gently scrolled serif font, with the same border of vines. The surface was marred by his fingerprints where he first touched it, but the rest of the card was pristine from crisp-cut edge to edge. He instinctively had a distrust of anything so high-class looking, since it was not the same sort of mail he was used to receiving. He never got much besides Nintendo Power, catalogs, and bills, for that matter. Slowly and somewhat gingerly, he opened the card and read the interior.  
 _"Shawn Spencer, Esq. and Bruton Gaster of Psych Inc.:_  
  
 _You are cordially invited to dinner and a murder at Dunwadie Castle on the evening of March the thirteenth of the year two thousand and thirteen. Room and board will be provided; dinner attire is formal. Please find the enclosed pre-paid debit card in the amount of $10,000 US to cover travel costs and any incidentals. A car will be waiting for you at Dunwadie Station._  
  
 _To the guest who solves the murder and apprehends the murderer, an additional_  
 _$20,000 US shall be awarded."_  
  
    Shawn tried hard to focus on anything other than the words "pre-paid debit card". Visions of rocket-powered, gold-plated skateboards danced in his head.  
    Gus was trying to hide an excited grin and failing. His financial state was respectable, especially given Shawn's, which was generally in freefall; but over the years the Psych agency had gnawed away more and more at his funds and his ability to be dedicated to his second job. It certainly didn't help that Shawn had a habit of charging his more extravagant expenses to Gus' credit card, though he paid him back - eventually. As a result, Gus was salivating at the idea of a paid vacation, even if it meant hanging out in a damp castle in Scotland with a would-be murderer. "I looked it up; it's a castle in the Scottish Highlands." 'Highlands' sounded promising, didn't it?  
    "What? In Scotland?"  
    "No, in Burbank. YES, in Scotland," he chided. Grabbing the collar of Shawn's Snuggie, Gus tried to extract him from it; but it was caught underneath his butt, and he wound up pulling Shawn entirely off the couch and onto the floor. Pretzels took flight in all directions.  
    "I don't want to go all the way to another COUNTRY for a case," he whined. His vote was unconvincing, folded up as he was on the floor between the couch and coffee table, legs akimbo, and a pretzel caught in his hair.  
    "Shawn, we can't turn down a case. You need the money. WE need the money. Do you have any idea what your budget was for junk food last month?" The expression on Gus' face, as if he'd just bitten a lemon so sour he considered it a personal affront, indicated that he certainly did.  
    "The fact that you dare to use 'budget' in the same sentence as 'junk food' means you clearly do."  Shawn was cranky from his sleep deprivation hangover, and now his rear was sore to boot. He fought his way out from the tangle of the Snuggie and got up, so he could at least be on even ground for the argument. Rubbing his forehead with one hand, Shawn regarded the card again. Aside from it being too early for him to be amused by any of this, it wasn't sitting well with him at all. He could see Gus fidgeting out of the corner of his eye, which wasn't helping.  
    "Gus, don't you think it's a LITTLE odd to announce that you're planning to murder someone in advance?"  
    "Just because you never call before coming over to someone's apartment, making a sandwich with their special organic bread, and filling up their DVR with Happy Days reruns doesn't mean that everyone else has no concept of etiquette." Somehow it all kept coming back to food.  
    "That is not even remotely the same thing! And for the record, I didn't know that was orangutan bread or I wouldn't have eaten it."  
    Shawn could see from the way Gus seemed to be barely holding back a dance number that the debate was already lost. He had to admit; being a fake psychic detective wasn't exactly a steady job. It had been a while since the last time the SBPD had called them up for a case, or there had been any worth crashing, and he wasn't about to get a real job like a savage. It was hard to even consider turning down that kind of money, even if he couldn't quite convince himself this was all some kind of elaborate but harmless stunt. His curiosity was piqued, and curiosity made that monkey George famous, after all…  
    "Fine. We'll take the case on three conditions. One, after the case we're going to look for Nessie. Two, we're using some of the money to hire Arnold Schwarzenegger to re-enact scenes from Last Action Hero. Three, I want drugs for the flight. You know I get anxious on any trip where I can't stop to get a Slushie."  
    Gus was a highly trained pharmaceutical salesman, and he was pretty sure at least one of them needed drugs all of the time. But he treasured any situation where he was the one who talked Shawn into a case, instead of being dragged along - not always figuratively. He'd learned to mentally frame his victories and hang them in an imaginary 'hall of being right' so he had something to hold on to the other 98% of the time.  
    "I KNEW that matched hard-sided luggage set would come in handy sooner or later," Gus beamed. "Business class, here we come!"  
    He'd chosen wisely in selecting a best friend with an impeccable moonwalk. Though Shawn didn't think matched luggage was due cause to bust it out, one does not simply refuse to join a spontaneous dance party. While they grooved and beatboxed to their own internal music, the little voice in the back of Shawn's mind that sometimes told him to be serious was trying desperately to be heard over the din: something is rotten in the country of Scotland.  
  
  
 **Crap Motel in Bumblef*ck Nowheresville, Somewhere Near Warsaw, Missouri; March 8-11th**  
    It was a black and rainy night. Dean Winchester pulled his jacket collar tighter around his neck, too late to stop an icy rivulet of rain water from slipping underneath when he stepped under the full gutters of the motel's sagging roof. At least the shiver down his spine shook off a little bit of his exhaustion; they'd been driving all night on narrow, winding roads, struggling to see through the downpour. For all its charms, the Impala was more of a fair-weather car; not that it had seen much of that. Nor had they.  
    The lobby was not much larger than a closet, with stained and chipped linoleum that might once have been green, but was turned by age and the wan light of the neon sign outside to shit brown. The middle-aged man working the front desk was sullen and slouched in his little cave of old papers, squinting through thick glasses at a vintage television that kept flipping to static. He tweaked the set's rabbit ears absentmindedly with one hand, and with the other he scratched his chest through a dirty auto parts store shirt that hung off his shoulders. A greasy combover laid limply across the dome of his skull like even his hair had given up on life. The picture was finished with a dribble of ketchup clinging to the uneven salt stubble on his chin. Dean grimaced and comforted himself with the thought that the guy probably had a world-class porn collection, which was something in life.  
    He slapped a credit card down on the counter. "Hey, brother, need to get a room." The man growled, smacked the top of the television, and turned to him. He gave Dean the once over through his smeary glasses.  
    "How many hours you an' your lady be usin' it fer?" He bore his tobacco-stained teeth in an unpleasant approximation of a knowing grin.  
    Dean laughed uncomfortably. He much preferred the motels where the staff had the sense to leave the guests' business alone, but it was hardly his first time. These were there sort of places, on the whole, where you were more likely to find a condom on your pillow than a mint. In the higher-class ones, it was still in a package.  
    He turned on a bright smile in the hopes it would get it over with quicker. "Actually, it's just me and my brother. One room. For the week." Seeing the man frown, he quickly added, "Business."  
    "Right. Bizness. We get uh lot uh bizness peeple." The frown turned back to a sideways smile as he took the card and fished out a reader from underneath a pile of newspapers and snack food wrappers. "Whatever's yer thing." He swiped the card somewhat over-dramatically, looked up at Dean, and winked.    
    Dean sighed quietly; next time he was definitely going to pretend to not speak English.  
  
    Three days later the boys had just finished a victory dinner. Carryout from a late-night burger stand down the street that looked like it had fallen through a crack in time, which was a decent salve for bruised ribs. The poltergeist had proved to be small fry, but still threw a mean fastball, especially given the lacking aerodynamics of the table lamp. Sam was puttering around online for another job, poaching a weak wifi signal from some hapless homeowner nearby who had dubbed their insecure network "SXYCATLVR79". Dean was sitting on the bed, hoping that repeatedly pushing the button for different lengths of time and then banging on the headboard would miraculously make the Magic Fingers work, or at least recover his change. He was not finding the experience very relaxing.  
    There was a rap on the door. They exchanged a quick look, and after a nearly imperceptible nod from Dean, Sam closed his laptop and went to open it. Dean slipped his hand underneath his jacket where it sat next to him on the bed, gripped the handle of his knife, and tensed the muscles in his legs.  
    It was the grimy man from the front desk who peeked around the door nervously, clearly expecting to see all manner of debauchery inside. When it was clear there was nothing of the sort, he relaxed but also seemed slightly disappointed. He pulled one hand from behind his back and held up a large white express mail envelope. Dean eased his grip on the knife and tried to look more casual and less murderous.  
    "Uhm, this came fer yuh. By courier. We don't get much uh that." He handed the envelope to Sam, a little reluctantly.  
    "Uh…thanks," Sam smiled, somewhat uncertainly. The man hesitated in the doorway as if waiting for something. He started to smile too, like a stray tomcat hoping for the sound of a can opener. Sam might've just met him but was already certain that was a can he did not want to open.  
    "Don't get much uh that," the man was saying again, expectantly, as Sam slowly but firmly closed the door on him.  
    "Who knows we're here? Garth?" He frowned suspiciously at the envelope, carefully examining the label. No return address or evidence of where it had been mailed.  
    "Sam, I didn't know we were here until we GOT here."  
    "It says 'Agents Black and Gass', Dean. Someone has to know." Sam sat down at the table with it, sliding his laptop out of the way. Now Dean was frowning, too. This definitely didn't make sense. Had someone been following them? And why would they send them a letter about it if they were? Demon who was a devoted reader of Dear Abby?  
    "Just open the damn thing already. Maybe it's a check from Publisher's Clearing House." Dean smirked. "'You may already be a winner'."  
    "Yeah, right…" Grabbing the pull tab, Sam ripped the envelope open, flipped it over, and gave it a gentle shake. A black envelope fell out on to the table, landing face up. Emblazoned on the jet surface in gold was "Dean and Samuel Winchester". They both hesitated for a moment.  
    "Okay, this is officially weird."  
    "Even for us." Half as though he thought it could be a poisonous viper in disguise, Sam picked it up and pulled out the card inside. He delicately checked inside the envelope just to make sure there weren't any cursed coins or anything else lurking, then opened the card and read it aloud.  
 _"'Samuel and Dean Winchester, of the Family Winchester:_  
  
 _You are cordially invited to dinner and a murder by monster at Dunwadie Castle, Scotland, on the evening of March the thirteenth of the year two thousand and thirteen. Room and board will  be provided; dinner attire is formal. Please find the enclosed pre-paid debit cards in the amount of $5,000 US apiece to cover travel costs and any incidentals. A car will be waiting for you at Dunwadie Station._  
  
 _To the guest who successfully hunts down the monster, an additional $20,000 US shall be awarded, as well as the satisfaction of further murders prevented.'"_  
      
Two jet black, glossy debit cards with their names - well, their current fake names - on it were stuck to the reverse flap of the card. How considerate. Sam raised his eyebrows and Dean swallowed hard.  
    "Boy, who knew hunting could bring in the big money?" said Dean with a laugh, but it was uneasy. Neither of them liked that word: 'further'. And 'monster' was never a good start.  
    "That's…uh… a lot of money."  
    "Scotland? Who could possibly know us in Scotland?"  
    "Ireland, maybe, but…" Both of them ran through their mental rolodex for a possible connection, but came up empty. The list had never been long, and had only gotten shorter over the years.  
    "It's definitely fake. Or a bad joke. Or using the card releases the vengeful spirit of a Midwestern housewife who died in an outlet mall fire. All I know is, there's no WAY you get something for nothing. Ever." Dean shot a bitter glare at the invitation, then continued to glower sourly at the room in general, and the universe by extension. Suddenly he was fostering an intense hatred of the polka dot curtains, and involuntarily clenched his fists.  
    "It might NOT be a trap." The idea was betrayed by Sam's furrowed brow. He got a look in response. Sam regarded his brother's petulant expression for a moment before adding, "Don't you think we should at least find out what it is?"  
    Dean sighed and scratched the back of his head. Yep, still sore from the earlier abrupt encounter with a wall, and none of this was helping. "Look, Sam, I don't know about you but I'm not in the market for a new big bad right now. Maybe it should be someone else's problem for once."  
    There was a long silence while they both considered this. 'Someone else's problem' was a lovely idea, but it usually wound up becoming their problem in the end anyway. If it was all a ploy by some nefarious villain, at least they were asking nicely for the Winchesters to walk into a trap, which was more than they could say for the vast majority of their baddies gallery. Advance warning of killing was new territory, too. Both brothers silently reached the same conclusion at the same time, though neither of them liked it in the least. Dean hesitated for a moment longer as if it physically tormented him to agree about such a singularly bad idea, but finally caved under the twin beams of Sam's empathetic puppy eyes.  
    "Oh, let me see the damn thing," Dean growled, snatching it from where Sam was already holding it up in anticipation. He examined it carefully, turning it every which way. Suddenly he stopped, holding it open at an angle. He got it quite close to his face and frowned deeply. Sam knew the expression and stood to come closer. Without looking away, Dean grabbed the bowie knife from the bed. Sam watched his brother somewhat quizzically, as he delicately inserted the tip of the knife into the side of a tiny incision below the text and pried up a hidden flap.  
    "Sam." It was an exhaled breath, heavy with dread. They stared at the card in silence for a long while. Underneath the flap was a photo. It was black and white, but had clearly been taken recently, going by the clothing. A couple and two young children stood in front of an old stone wall, with the outline of a castle in the distance. The faces had been burned away. At the bottom, in red felt tip marker, were the words "SAVE THEM".  
    "Dammit." The utterance was almost inaudible. Dean sheathed his knife emphatically, closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. There was the headache. He tossed the invitation back on to the table with distaste. "I'll get on the damned plane, but you can't pay me enough to wear a monkey suit to dinner."    
    Why couldn't the family business have been chartered accountancy?  
  
  
 **Baker Street, London, England; March 12th**  
    It was a bleak and blustery morning, and John Watson's mood was dark and stormy. He'd been woken repeatedly during the night, by Sherlock's violin playing, and the frustrated banging and cursing in between that comprised composing. Then, what little sleep he'd managed to get was shattered early by Sherlock shouting down the morning news. John had given up on bed, only to stumble zombie-like into the kitchen and discover that the bread had gone moldy and there was no milk. Again. He'd had no choice but to tromp down to the shops in the wind and chill rain before he'd had any coffee or breakfast. Consulting detective Sherlock Holmes was nothing without anything to detect; and no case worthy of him had cropped up in two weeks. Sherlock was miserable, and as a result so was everyone and everything else in a 100 yard radius. Mrs. Hudson had finally recused herself and gone to visit her sister when she found him about to experiment on her favorite ficus, 'trying to find the fastest way to kill it'. He'd effectively found the fastest way to get Mrs. Hudson to leave - taking her plant with her.  
    When John came back up the stairs into the flat, Sherlock was still in his dressing gown, accessorized with nitrile rubber gloves, safety glasses, and rain boots. It would have seemed comical, if his drawn face and red rimmed eyes hadn't attested to many days lacking both sleep and food. He'd been running so many experiments all over the flat lately, many simultaneously and at all hours of the night, that John had quite lost track of what their goal even was; and he suspected that Sherlock might have lost the thread of it somewhat, too. He'd had to institute a moratorium on experiments in the bathroom when he'd found a human molar dissolving in an acid bath - in his water glass. At the moment Sherlock was stamping on something smoldering at the bottom of the wastebasket.  
    "Wrong, wrong, WRONG," he growled at the offending cinders. He kicked off the rain boots when he was done; John had to sidestep to avoid one of them as it struck the doorframe.  
    "I've got the milk, Sherlock." The news was pointed but he knew it wasn't registered. John peered into the wastebasket. The pathetic remains of what appeared to have been some kind of sweater were reduced to a burned and melted blob at the bottom. He was glad he'd gotten a metal can. "Glad to see the Fashion Police have been hard at work while I was making sure we had food. Implementing capital punishment, I see."  
    "A study on the reactions of assorted synthetic fiber blends to various heat sources, John." The man had an uncanny gift for the verbal sneer; as usual, it was an indication of displeasure at having to say aloud something that should've been obvious.  
    Shaking his head, John headed towards the kitchen to put away the shopping and get some kind of breakfast ready. He was stopped dead in his tracks by a wisp of bright purple smoke casually rolling out of the doorway.  
     "If you've put that out, where is the smoke coming from…?" John was fairly sure he wasn't going to like it when he found out the answer.  
    "Oh, the microwave is on fire." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, without looking away from the pile of used clothing he was pawing through in search of a new victim.  
    "What? Why is the microwave on fire?!" John paused, then corrected himself: "Again…"  
    "Don't worry about it, John!" He already had a hideous polyester shirt in one hand and a soldering iron in the other.  
    "How can I not worry about it?" John's voice was angry, but like an old hand he calmly grabbed the fire extinguisher from the counter (under the sink wasn't handy enough), opened the door of the smoking appliance, and filled the inside with foam. He opened a window to let out the toxic-smelling fumes. Then he put away the groceries like a civilized human - once he'd moved the plastic container of eyeballs out of the crisper drawer. In the other room, Sherlock had not gotten the result he wanted from the polyester shirt, and was pacing so ferociously he seemed in hope of wearing through the floorboards with sheer frustration.  
    Unnoticed, John came behind him expertly, putting the smoldering remains of the shirt in the trash. He let out a quiet "Jesus" when removing the soldering iron from where it had been tossed carelessly on to a pile of newspapers. He'd decided breakfast was a lost cause and he might as well hold out till lunch. The smell of melted plastic and wet sheep was off-putting to the appetite; as was the sheep's head he'd discovered regarding him from the kitchen sink.  
    Sherlock melodramatically punted stacks of files off the sofa before flopping down on his back.  
    "It's just an experiment. All I can do is experiments. I haven't got a CASE."  He gestured to the sky with his fists, threatening a petulant higher power. He didn't wait for a reply, just grabbed a throw pillow and pressed it over his face. John sighed.  
    "So no one's in a murdering mood. Isn't that a good thing?" he asked, knowing full well the answer but making an effort for the sake of clinging to some concept of decency.  
    "NO!" came the muffled but immediate reply.  
    "Can't you at least go through your mail? You've got a good week's worth here." John gestured to the chaotic mountain currently occupying the table he would've liked to put his laptop on. "Maybe there's a case in it."  
    "There ISN'T."  
    Increasingly the conversation was deteriorating into a child's fit, as it had been quite frequently in the lull since the  matter in Norwood was resolved. He took one last shot at it. "You can't know that when you haven't even opened any of them."  
    That got his attention. Sherlock sat bolt upright, his laser eyes focused, and he swung over to the table in one swift motion. He cinched his dressing gown tight and shot John a glare of disapproval that could've stripped the paper off the wall before snatching up a stack of post.  
    "Junk mail. Advertisement for car insurance. From a child, unlikely to be a triple homicide." He held each envelope aloft for only an instant before tossing them haphazardly over his shoulder.  
    "Fan mail." His lip twisted with distaste; sniffing the envelope, he recoiled further. "Over 50 and drowning in cheap perfume.  
     "Dull. Boring. Unbearably droll!" The letters were discarded even faster now, some without pronouncement beyond a frown or sneer; disappointment confetti flew left and right. "Bill. Overdue bill."    
    "Sherlock, that's from the power company--" John dove for the envelope but it was hopeless. Half-heartedly, he tried fishing through the mess on the floor.   
    "Fan mail. To you."  
    "Wait, what? Really?" His reaction sounded a little more enthusiastic than he'd intended, as did the leap back to his feet. A lightning-quick and tiny grin flashed across the haughty countenance regarding John.  
    "Five, possibly six cats. No good. Letter from your bank."  
    John jumped up in an attempt to catch this one, but it was less than aerodynamic and turned suddenly. He had to scramble around in crumpled newspaper to fish it out. When he turned back around, ready to snag anything else important, he realized that Sherlock had gone silent. He was stock still and staring intently at a large black envelope.  
    Slowly, he turned it in his hands, holding it alternately closer and farther away. There was a flash of gold from the front.  
    "What is it?"  
    "Interesting." John wasn't sure whether this was a reply to him or to some internal monologue, but it didn't really matter. It was something.  
    "Hand-delivered. After the real post had come, so that it would be at the top of the stack. Never touched except while wearing gloves. Must've even been in a glass case at the shop. Sealed with a sponge; no DNA there. Paper is very high GSM; only a specialty shop would carry it. High-end stationers or possibly an art supply. But they're careful; would likely have been mail ordered. Too few shops of that nature, they'd run a chance of being remembered." Sherlock scarcely came up for air, and his focus never wavered from the envelope for an instant.  
    He grabbed a tiny silver letter opener from where he evidently knew a pencil can lurked beneath the hoard of papers that drowned his desk. With a surgeon's precision, he slid it open where it had been sealed rather than slicing it. He drew out the card, studied it silently for a moment, then opened it reverentially. He stepped to the window and leaned into the weak gray daylight, turning his back to John.  
    Some long moments passed; John waited. Suddenly Sherlock spun back, snapped the card closed and handed it over, still saying nothing beyond what the subtle creasing of his brow and downward turn to the mouth told. He stalked over to his chair, sat, and rested his chin on his steepled fingers with eyes closed.  
    Confused, John looked down at the card. Precise gold script scrolled across the front: "Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson". Somewhat apprehensively, he opened it.  
      
 _"Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson:_  
  
 _You are cordially invited to dinner and a murder at Dunwadie Castle on the evening of March the thirteenth of the year two thousand and thirteen. Room and board will be provided; dinner attire is formal. Please find the enclosed pre-paid debit card in the amount of £10,000 US to cover travel costs and any incidentals. A car will be waiting for you at Dunwadie Station._  
  
 _To the guest who solves the murder and apprehends the murderer, an additional     £20,000_  
 _shall be awarded."_  
  
"Why would you send an invitation to a murder?" John spoke cautiously.  
    "Not an 'invitation', John; it's a threat." His voice was low and calm, and he didn't open his eyes; but the tension written across his shoulders was enough to tell this was serious.  
    "What?"  
    "The hidden flap, John. The bottom." Sherlock gestured in front of him, drawing a tiny rectangle in the air with one finger.    
    "What flap…" John peered at the lower part of the card beneath the text, and finally spotted the faint darker line where it had been cut. He slid his nail underneath and lifted it. The result made his heart sink like a stone. "Oh, God. You think it's for real?"  
    "Without a doubt." The pronouncement had the utterly definite air that only Sherlock could muster. The ramification sent an unpleasant chill clambering down John's spine.  
    John frowned at the card. The circumstances put him ill at ease; but he knew once Sherlock's mind was in motion on a matter, there was no getting off the ride - no matter how off the rails it was bound to go. "So we have a case?"  
    "Yes, John; we have a CASE."  
    Sherlock stirred into motion again quicker than a jack-in-the-box. He thumped John on the shoulders, giving him a manic grin. There it was; the familiar twist in his stomach, half anticipation and half "oh god, not again". He was startled from the beginnings of a reflection on the state of his life by Sherlock's shout from the next room, where he was undoubtedly already packing.  
    "Book us a train, John! And put out the trash!"  
    'Put out the trash?'  Suddenly now Sherlock was interested in the mundane household tasks? He'd have to take out half the room to do it. Then, with the aid of the acrid scent of burning plastic followed by the sudden heat of flames nearby, he realized. "Oh, shit."  
    It was more of a general conclusion than an exclamation.  
  
  
 **Carina Nebula; Exact Space-Time Co-ordinates Unknown**  
    It was always day in space; not that time was remotely relevant inside the TARDIS. The rain, on the other hand, was something of an anomaly in both cases. Nevertheless, Amy Pond was miserably huddled under a tatty yellow umbrella, trying to use a car sunshade to shield critical bits of the console from a determined lavender rain.     "At least in Scotland it doesn't rain indoors," she muttered to herself, shifting her weight to balance the umbrella on her hip. Her socks squelched unpleasantly inside her soaked Converses. It had surely been nearly an hour by now. Her red hair was plastered against her forehead and cheeks, her arms ached, and she was as far from having an adventure as she could imagine. "Doctor, how much longer is this going to take?"  
    "Regular maintenance! You have to keep up the maintenance or it all goes haywire." The answer that was not an answer came from where he was slung underneath the glass floor below the console, tinkering with a mechanism that looked like the unholy offspring of a toaster and a carburetor. Amy was less than pleased that he'd somehow dug up a mariner's rain kit for himself, complete with wide-brimmed hat, on his trip to the TARDIS' wardrobe and only brought her a charity shop umbrella.  
    "You owe me a trip to the beach now, you know," she called back. "A proper beach, with sand and waves and sunshine." The Doctor was as bad as a genie; even if she made her wishes carefully, they tended to backfire anyway.  
    "Don't worry, Amy, the coolant is entirely harmless. Well, nearly entirely harmless. Well, mostly harmless." He gaily carried on in the conversation he expected he was having rather than the one he was, as he often did. He switched the setting on his sonic and tried again; the alignment was still off. He tried giving it a good whack just to be sure. "So long as you wash it off within, oh, an hour, your genetic structure should be fine. Besides, who'd mind an extra arm or two?"  
    In spite of the bright grin he flashed Amy, the Doctor's version of reassuring banter was extremely ineffective. She was about to suggest that she would most certainly mind having an extra arm and tell him to hurry up and fix the bloody thing already so she could make an urgent appointment with a shower, when yet another anachronism struck her already jangled nerves. A phone rang.  
    Amy's hand instinctively went to her pocket for her mobile; but it wasn't the sound of a mobile, it was the sound of an honest-to-goodness phone, loud and clear as a bell. The sound called up old memories of dim houses that smelled of must, and a vague sense of trepidation. Confused, she bent down to see what the Doctor was doing below her. He did not seem to have noticed.  
    "Doctor… does the TARDIS have a phone?"  
    "Oh, I think I've got one lying around somewhere… keep it around for atmosphere…" He was deep in concentration with the faulty carbu-toaster. The Doctor had just pushed backwards on his swing so he could kick the malfunctioning coolant control valve with both feet when the phone rang again, seemingly louder. "What's that? is that the phone? The phone NEVER rings!"  
    "Well, it's ringing now," Amy was losing patience.  "Should I answer it?"  
    "OUCH-" The phone rang again, insistently. The Doctor's lost concentration mid-swing had resulted in an unexpected meeting of his head with part of the TARDIS' underbelly that sent him spinning, and now he was badly tangled in the wires suspending him. He looked for all the world like a neglected marionette, fragile limbs askew and motion broken.  
    "Second panel over from the door! Quickly, quickly!" For reasons known only to him, his disinterest had changed abruptly to urgency, and he emphatically waved her in the right direction as well as he could with one arm pinned against his chest and a leg stuck up in the air.  
    Amy balanced the sunshade over the console, gripped the ridiculous umbrella tightly, and made for the door. She managed to get down the steps in one leap, but nearly wiped out on the wet floor when she landed. Turning the momentum into a skid to the wall, she hit the correct panel with her elbow and it sprang open. Inside was a black phone with a rotary dial and a fabric cord. It was very ordinary looking, of the type she'd expect to be lending character in an old hotel; but as it was, in the rain in a flying police box in space, she couldn't help but mistrust it. Especially on behalf of the mystery of who could be calling. Her hand hovered for a moment as it rang again, then she grabbed it.  
    "Hello, this is the Doctor's conveyance; Amy Pond speaking. How may I help you?" At least that dismal summer job in school, years and worlds away, had prepared her for answering phones in space.  
    The Doctor was still trying to right himself on his swing, having so far only succeeded in hanging off one end of it awkwardly with one foot snagged on a cable. He could see an upside-down and wobbling Amy was still on the phone, saying nothing but listening intently.  
    "I'll tell him, thank you," she said, and replaced the receiver.  
    "Ah! That's done it!" He finally managed to extricate himself, executing a nearly elegant flip and landing mostly on his feet on the floor. "Well? What did they want…?"  
    "You've got mail," she replied, sounding impassive but swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. Half thrill of excitement, half chill of terror, all rising up in her chest at once and taking away her breath: that was the feeling of traveling with a Time Lord.  
    Abruptly, there was an odd whirr from beneath the TARDIS console and the rain ceased.  
    "Ah!" cried the Doctor, throwing up his hands in victory. Only someone who knew him well could sense the nervous undercurrent to his enthusiasm. "There we are! Everything is always happening at once, which is all well and good and that's time for you, but just the same it's better not to be WET while you're doing it!"  
    In a flurry of long limbs in flight, he had scrambled up from below the console and was at Amy's side in a moment, having cast off the heavy raincoat along the way. He plopped the mariner's hat on her head with a teasing grin. Then his face set into a more serious mode. "Now then, let's see about this mail."  
    "Haven't got a mailbox, not much call for that, hard to maintain an address when you're traversing space-time so--" He paced while he spoke, then as if struck by a sudden idea, the Doctor swung open the door to the TARDIS. There, pinned to the door in a way that completely defied the sweeping and immense view of the nebula beyond where said door was suspended in the depths of space, was a black envelope. The Doctor snatched up the envelope and pushed the door shut again without so much as a glance at the unlikely scenery beyond. He tore into it and pulled out the card it like a puppy gleefully destroying his master's slipper. Amy curled around his jutting elbow but couldn't quite see to read it, so she watched his reaction instead.  
    From time to time, the Doctor made a face like an old man would wear when disapproving of the price of eggs. It was not a childish pout, or even quite a frown, except that it pulled his whole face downwards. It was more like the weight of all his years suddenly dragging his features towards the floor. Amy knew it meant the outward enthusiasm of his nature couldn't overcome something so offensive that it cut to his core. Those moments were rare and dark indeed; she knew to be frightened when they came, and not just of the cause. Without realizing, she held her breath while he stood stock still and silent.  
    Then he handed her the card without a word, rolling slow and deliberate like a stormcloud back up the stairs to the TARDIS controls. No matter how elegant the script, the gold letters ran like ice in her veins as she read.  
 _"The Doctor and his companion, Amy Pond:_  
  
 _You are cordially invited to dinner and a murder by monster at Dunwadie Castle, Scotland, on the evening of March the thirteenth of the year two thousand and thirteen. Room and board will be provided; dinner attire is formal._  
  
 _No incentive is offered; no reward will be given. You will come because you do; and because you are not the only one who has received this invitation."_  
  
    She closed the card, and carrying it in both hands gingerly as though it might explode at any moment, she followed him up to the console platform. "Doctor…" Amy searched for words, but they'd all fallen into the pit of her stomach, and lay there fallow.  
    He was busy at the controls and did not turn to her. The light of the console cast his face in monochrome shadows, harsh under his eyes. He twisted a knob and then gently took the card from her, placing it atop a display. They both stared at the gold inscription of their names on the front.  
    "It's quite rude to turn down an invitation, don't you think?" he finally said. She nodded.  
    He took her hand in his and placed it on the final control. Together, they pulled back and the TARDIS roared into action.  
  
 **Dunwadie Castle, Scotland, March 12th**  
In the deepest stone heart of an ancient fortress, where old things lay hidden and ancient things watched with lidless eyes, the mechanism stirred in anticipation.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. A Conference of Kings

**Exact Location Unknown; February 24, 2013**

            The man in the sharply tailored steel gray suit standing before the spread of occult paraphernalia would have made an odd picture, if there had been any witnesses of sound mind and body. As it was, he was undisturbed while his deft fingers darted through the familiar routine of the summoning without the slightest hesitation. He was careful as he worked not to sully his silk tie with the blood; which was unlikely to have been the original intent of the maker of his glinting silver tie pin, but he had found it highly practical nonetheless. His companion - who was decidedly not of sound mind - simply leaned against the wall in the deep shadows of a corner and watched, a shotgun resting casually against his shoulder and a vicious looking machete in his hand. He periodically twirled it playfully to stay alert. 

With the striking of a match, bright in the dim room, the ritual was done. The flash of the flames speeding hungrily upwards from the ceremonial bowl lit the well-dressed man's deep set eyes sharply, momentarily casting his expression of disinterest into one of intense avarice. As expected, a slight breeze rippled out from the devil’s trap as the air formerly occupying the space was unceremoniously displaced by the appearance of a certain not-quite-so-sharply-dressed demon. He looked slightly surprised and very displeased to be there, though less surprised when he saw who had summoned him.

            "Crowley, King of Hell! How lovely to see you again." He came over to the perimeter of the complex pentacle marked on the floor in red, arms wide, as if welcoming an old friend. The appearance of joviality wasn't fooling anyone; the smile was one hundred percent predator. If sharks could walk upright and manage a Windsor knot, they would be called--

            "--Moriarty." Crowley spoke the name with the distinctive brand of fond distaste he saved for his best 'customers' and bent his own mouth in his version of a friendly smile, but his heart wasn't in the play. Without the sweet flavor of fear in the interaction, all the fun went out of it. He straightened his tie, which was not nearly so precise and fashionable. "I hope you have a good reason for calling me here. For all you know, I could've been in the bath."

            Moriarty laughed; a harsh sound like dead leaves under a steamroller, and raised an eyebrow. "In Hell?"

            Crowley shrugged, moving to follow Moriarty in his slow circle around the boundary the demon couldn't cross. Almost close enough to touch, but not quite close enough. He was not the type to let his guard down; it was prudent caution, not fear. The disrespect made Crowley's visions of tearing the man apart even more vivid and gory. He'd had a brainstorm involving a blender, which he could use to make a smoothie out of -- he dismissed the thought. He couldn't afford to be distracted.

            "Maybe I have a hot tub. Very hot. I DO have an afterlife to live, you know." He tried to match the casual attitude of his captor, but though he excelled at petty deceit, his playacting skills were rather amateur. There was an edge of unease under Crowley's repartee, a combination of the mortal's easy familiarity and a nagging, obvious question. "What do you _want_ , Moriarty?"

            Moriarty stopped in his circuit of the perimeter, turning swiftly and dancer-like on the tips of his pointed shoes to face the confined demon. He slowly drew a pen knife from the inside pocket of his trimly cut jacket and began to clean his fingernails with the blade, all the while scarcely breaking eye contact. The two men, both somewhat small of stature in other company, were eye to eye; which paradoxically made each draw themselves up in a contest down to milimeters. Crowley was clearly at the disadvantage, a bit disheveled by comparison and much less certain of the game. He fantasized in the long moment of silence about plucking every waxed-down and glossy hair from the man's head one by one. Finally, he couldn't stand it any longer and took the bait.

            "Oh, get on with it! Blasted ponce. I have places to be and people to torture. Have a manicure on your own time," Crowley snapped. "I'm sure you can get your lap dog there to paint your nails just how you like them."

            Abruptly, a change came over the slighter mortal; he slouched his shoulders and cast his gaze down to the floor. He stepped back a bit, dragging his feet like a small child who had just been scolded. "Tell me, Crowley… have you been enjoying my work?" He peered back at the demon, eyes wide and expression almost pleading. A puppy desperate for approval. He was a disconcerting little prick, no doubt about that.

            "You've been wreaking glorious havoc ever since you got here. Which reminds me; when you're downstairs you simply must come round for a cuppa and tell me all about that. How you GOT here." He stressed the word so hard it became a threat. However, as long as he was trapped by the magic symbol on the floor, it was an inherently empty one. The situation was chafing at him, so he ineffectually straightened his tie again, violently, as though it was choking him and he wanted revenge. In his mind's eye it was Moriarty's weasel neck. "Did you summon me hoping to get a commemorative plaque for a job well done? Parking spot in the Fifth Circle? Hell doesn't hand out gold watches to mortals for service, even ones with such an… _interesting_ track record."

            Moriarty twisted his lip, tilting his head upwards to stare disapprovingly at Crowley, then turned his back on him. Another mercurial change overtook him, a vicious will shaking down through his limbs, bunching up his muscles. He swatted at the air around his head as if invisible monsters had suddenly set upon him. When he finished, he spun back to the demon with the kind of murderous inferno in his dark eyes that even a demon had to respect. Crowley would never have admitted it, but he was afraid of Moriarty, the way that all creatures clinging to some illusion of sanity instinctively fear the genuinely insane. Crowley might be a demon and a sick bastard, but he was not mad; and this was the very reason he'd come to dread these little conferences. There was trouble enough to be found without courting the houses of madmen.

            "It's not about what I WANT," Moriarty seethed through clenched teeth. "Anything I want, I take. It's about what I NEED. I need enough time. Enough time for one last, great game." He brought his face as close as he could to the boundary between them, his face twisted in a grotesque mask of desire.

            The demon looked deep into the man's eyes, the faintest flicker of fire playing about in his own while he did so. His gaze was a laser targeting system, honing in on his favorite mark - weakness. He was slightly surprised when he found some. It had been there all along; a waxy grayness to the skin, darkness under the eyes cast by more than just the shadows in the room, the way the slim-cut suit seemed ever so slightly too wide in the shoulders. There it was. The baying of a wolf at the door, and deep inside a mortal soul cowering and fending it off with a fading flame. It was the one thing to which all earthly kings lost their crown.

            "I'll be damned. Again. Well, well. The criminal mastermind, finally defeated by…himself." Slow and deliberate, Crowley spread a self-satisfied smile and his arms wide, presenting this delicious finale like a brand new sports car. "You're fate's bitch!"

            "I may not be able to control fate, but I can control you." The words still had the vicious edge, but now Crowley knew the knife was blunt. Moriarty was dying, and he was king again.

            "I think you're forgetting something in this equation," Crowley chided, wagging his finger. He knew things had turned in his favor, and the smell of chum in the water was sweet. "You've got nothing to bargain with. We already have your soul. Free of charge. Not that you were using it…"

            "I'm not offering my soul. I'm offering something better; something you've wanted for a long time." Moriarty was trying to regain his footing, but the battle was mostly lost. His movements had a desperate edge to them. It was plain now in the wide eyes under his hooded brows; his only possible move was to make checkmate into check. "We're alike, you know; men who have a singular focus on a particular affliction. Une bête noire. Or in your case, deux."

            "You think you can get me the Winchesters?" Crowley snorted and shoved a hand in his pocket. If he'd been capable of feeling sorry for how pathetic this mortal had become, he would have. "What makes you think you can succeed in killing them when so many others have failed? You're only human, after all. No matter how nasty that precious little noggin of yours is, you're still just a meat puppet."

            "Any half-wit child with a weapon can KILL someone," sneered Moriarty; then, realizing, he waved an apologetic hand to his companion in the corner. "No offense."

            There was a barely visible shrug from the shadows, candlelight glinting toothily off the machete.

            Crowley spared him a look of disbelief. "Obviously you've never tried to kill the Winchesters…worse than roaches..."

            Unexpectedly, Moriarty's smile returned, breaking Crowley away from pleasant thoughts of having those two in his clutches and a box with a few of his favorite things.

            "But the fun of it, the ART of it, is making them WANT to die," Moriarty purred.

            "Yeah, I'm pretty sure those boys would throw themselves on the proverbial sword to save a sodding KITTEN. That's not the issue." Now he was simply annoyed, and wanted the pointless conversation to be over so he could move on to more satisfying prey.

            "Isn't it, though? All you've done has been to make their will to live stronger. You've given them something to fight for, and in doing that you've given them a choice. I'm going to take away the choice - so that the only thing they can DO is die." The spark was back in Moriarty's eyes. Thoughts of murder were always cheering. A wicked grin danced at the corners of his mouth before he moved over to the table where he had been working the ritual and took up a piece of paper.

            Vaguely, Crowley was starting to wonder if the cheeky, bonkers, worm-food mortal had a point. The man had a mind like bag of snakes on meth, but he had a flair for creative ways of accomplishing his brutal goals. Half-formed arguments and counter-arguments did a lazy jig through his mind, until he trudged a bit reluctantly to the conclusion that he didn't really have anything to lose. Whether sooner or later, Moriarty was already his; what difference did it make if it was in two easy payments?

            "They'll know it's a trap. They won't show," he offered, almost helpfully.

            "Oh, I'll make certain they know it's a trap. The trick of it is they won't know it's a trap for them." Moriarty turned back from the table, and his quick fingers were folding the paper into an airplane.

            Crowley regarded him curiously. He’d fully lost track of what page of the script they were meant to be on.

            "All right, my interest is piqued. What do you need?"

            "Not what. Whom." With a quick flick of the wrist, Moriarty sent his paper airplane swiftly across the barrier.

            Crowley snatched it delicately from the air, then crumpled it into a ball in his fist. He waited a moment, then unfolded it and read. He laughed. "I'm looking forward to seeing you downstairs. We’ll do great work together. By the way… you must introduce me to your tailor."

            Moriarty bent down and drew his knife sharply across the stone floor, scoring a line through the magic circle. When he looked up, Crowley was - as expected - gone. He closed his eyes languorously, raised his hands as if in reverie, and his pearl white teeth sparkled in his wide grin. The room was deathly silent and still but he could hear music. Perfect, heavenly music.

 

 

**Deep Underground, Exact Location Unknown; February 24, 2013**

            It is not in the far flung reaches of the world where things remain hidden. Their peoples are conquered, their lands are mapped and divided, and their secrets are laid bare in the scorching daylight of the relentless search for the new. What lies undiscovered is not in these new lands, but is buried beneath the old ones. Many things abide in darkness, forgotten; falling deeper and deeper into the long, slow slumber of ages while time climbs ever upwards. The little ants that industriously remake the surface world crawl over it, building their fragile towers. They live out their tiny lives and fall into the earth themselves; scarcely dreaming what dwells under the oblivious march of their myriad feet. They do not fear to wake the dragons they do not know.

            With a soft rustling of gears like leaves before wind, safe behind the velvet veil of its obscurity, the mechanism clicked forward one turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's probably risky taking a certain departure from canon; please be patient with it. Not everything is what it seems. Also thanks to people who have been reading this; I was pretty intimidated about posting it and honestly didn't think anyone would read, so thank you for your interest and your appreciation.


	3. Rookie Mistakes

**LaGuardia Airport, outside New York, New York: March 12th**

The line for security was dismal, and snaked down the hallway. A bored voice on endless repeat warned of the dangers of unattended baggage. Disgruntled travelers shifted their feet, children whined, forward motion was almost nonexistent; and Dean Winchester had discovered that he was not a fan of standing in lines. Especially at airports.

He alternated uneasily between shuffling his feet, glaring at things, and staring longingly at the nearby bar while the line ponderously crept forward in irregular intervals. They'd had a marathon drive to get to the airport, and horrible traffic since they got into New Jersey. Both boys had spent what felt like an eternity arguing over directions, with Sam putting full faith in his phone and Dean trying to convince him the damned place was a grid anyway. if anyone was ever in danger from monsters in Manhattan, he was leaving it to someone else; it was no place for the Impala. He'd nearly gone hoarse shouting at crazed cabbies and absurd oversized luxury SUVs with names like 'Citadel'. How any reasonable person managed to live in a city like that was beyond him; he'd been profoundly grateful when they finally crossed the bridge into Queens. And still, though neither of them said a word, they'd half enjoyed getting lost and gridlocked in the great city. Deep in its concrete and glass canyons, swallowed up and made anonymous by its teeming peoples, they felt a world away from everything they'd ever known.

Now they were at the airport Dean was concerned with the mundane again, and trying hard not to worry about his baby being left on its lonesome, languishing in long-term parking. Combined with the idea of eight hours stuck in a metal tube thirty thousand feet above the ocean, the wait had put him in a black mood. Someone nearby quipped that it was like being in Purgatory; at least then he'd have had something he could kill. Instead he was stuck drumming his fingers endlessly on his thigh, and considering whether he hated flying or airport lines more.

The public address system was babbling on for the umpteenth time about the threat level being orange. He had no idea how threatening orange was supposed to be, as a color. It certainly wasn't his favorite. Maybe it was supposed to mean that things were slightly on fire? He wondered how the terror threat alert would work for hunters. They'd have to expand the spectrum; black for demons, maybe. What color was an apocalypse, then? Dean realized this train of thought wasn't proving entertaining at all, and let it derail and crash in flames. No, wait, thinking about crashes and flames was an even worse idea. _Don't think about crashes. Think about anything but that._

He tried to find something else to focus on. A little girl with her hair in pigtails, maybe three, was making faces at him over her mother's shoulder. He broke his dour expression for a moment to stick out his tongue at her. She giggled, tossing her blond curls back and forth, then squinched her face up and blew a raspberry. Dean put his fingers at the corners of his mouth and pulled, crossing his eyes, and held for laughter; but then the both of her reacted with an uncertain squeak. He stopped and tried smiling at her to show it was okay, An uncertain wrinkling of her nose indicated she was about to cry. He tried to think of something comforting to do, but it was too late. She was already well on her way into a drawn out caterwaul. Sam smacked him in the arm and shrugged disapprovingly. "

What? You thought it was funny when you were little…" said Dean in answer to the accusation. Sam responded with a 'responsible adult' frown. _Dammit, just because he doesn't remember doesn't mean it's not true. He used to laugh till he turned beet red and fell over._

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Dean?" Sam was back to serious business. He'd never left.

"No, I'm pretty sure it's a terrible one," Dean grumped. He thought a good scream might do him some good, too.

Sam waffled for a moment, then ventured further, in his most considerate, quiet voice. "Look, I know you have a thing about planes…"

Dean swung his duffle onto his shoulder pointedly and stepped closer to his brother so they could speak with what little privacy could be managed. He hated the 'I'm here for you' voice when it was no time for talking about their feelings.

"What were we gonna do, sail over on the Titanic? And you said whoever planned this shindig will be tracking the card usage," Dean spoke in earnest but hushed tones. "We've got to play it cool. So we're popping across the Atlantic in a tin can, and Castiel's FedExing his ass to Scotland with the armory, for the same godforsaken reasons we do anything."

His brother looked at him askance at the mention of Cas' involvement. He'd never gotten the same handle on the easy familiarity as Dean had. "You know he's an angel, not a delivery service."

"You know damn well he's the Pony Express when we need him to be, so unless you want to go into this unarmed, that's the plan." Dean saw he'd won the argument and stepped down. Sam might not agree with him, but he was just registering the complaint; he had no alternative to offer. Dean was almost immediately distracted from his irritation by the mental image. "Heh. Angel Express. Can you imagine? With the little shorts, and the logo could be a box with a pair of wings and a halo--"

Seeing Sam's glare, Dean cleared his throat and looked away, pretending to find the back of a business man's head fascinating.

"Okay, well, let's carry on with our terrible idea." He knew that there wasn't another way they could've gotten any guns or much else through security; but Sam still didn't like the idea of using Cas as courier. Dean had always been casual about asking for favors from the angel, but even after all their time together Sam still couldn't shake off the sense that it was…disrespectful. To be honest neither of them liked anything about the entire situation, but that was the way it went. Though he was secretly trying not to find it hilarious, he genuinely hoped Dean was really okay with flying. The way his shoulders were drawn up under his ears told a different story than his cranky bravado. He sighed; there really was no choice anyway.

"Paging Bruton Gaster, will Bruton Gaster pleasemeethispartyatstheinformationdesk, thankyou." The words issuing from the PA system fell over each other awkwardly. The constant stream of airport announcements, in myriad voices, were all equally unintelligible and useless. Another thing to hate about airports. Dean looked up at the speaker above his head as if he expected an explanation for its stupidity.

"Who the hell names their kid Bruton? That's like a dork life sentence…" he muttered, half to himself.

The little girl in front of them had finally stopped crying. Her wide, clear eyes peered around her mother's hair, tiny fingers wrapped tightly around a grimy looking stuffed pink monkey her mother had pulled out during her earlier fit. She was cute. Sam bent his six foot four bulk down closer to her level, and gave her a goofy grin. He waved in the cartoonish, overzealous manner one uses with children and mouthed an enthusiastic 'hi!'.

The child's eyes went even wider at this huge human and her mouth fell open. The cherubic cheeks flushed pink, the monkey's head fell sideways in a sudden death grip, and she started to wail again. The mother turned to her, then back to them; and with a shaming glare at the mismatched pair of men in road-weary outdoor gear and patchy jeans, she hugged her child tighter and stepped as far away as she could go while still in line.

"Dude," Dean admonished his brother, only half hiding a smile, whacking him playfully on the arm.

"Shut up," snapped Sam, kicking his bag across the floor angrily when they had to step forward another few inches. Between the screaming, the line, and the announcements, he'd have given anything to be trapped in the Impala with his brother's karaoke.

 

* * *

 

When Gus returned to the line for security, Shawn had half the contents of his backpack spread across the floor, and was still fishing around in it for something else. Gus readied his righteously indignant face. He was an expert, given how often he had cause to use it.

"I was in the bathroom, Shawn, you didn't have to page me," he said. "I had to go to the information desk. Why did you tell them I was a lost child?"

"You were gone for so long, I got worried." His friend tried out his best apologetic child look, which was aided in effect by the fact he was currently struggling in a clumsy attempt to load a Pez dispenser, but Gus wasn't having any of it.

"I was only gone for ten minutes! There was a line!" In truth, there had not been a line. Gus just valued his privacy and therefore had to wait until everyone else had left before he could relax and get down to business.

"And what if you'd gotten eaten by toilet gators, Gus? What then?" Shawn emphatically pushed the Pez dispenser back into its stem, but some of the candies had gotten stuck and tiny pink rectangles went flying everywhere. He stared in dismay at the fallen candy. "Darn it, that was the strawberry! Do they have Pez in Scotland? What kind of candy do you think they have? Is it all haggis-flavored? Or do they have candy flavored haggis..."

"Gators live in the sewers, not the toilets. And they're not real," Gus continued on, ignoring Shawn's detours. Without this skill he'd never manage a conversation.

"They are too real. They live in swimming pools in suburban Florida, I saw it on TV." Shawn squinted at him incredulously. "We'll see how your story holds up when you're telling it to the business end of a toilet gator."

Gus rolled his eyes and accepted defeat. As usual, logic was getting him nowhere. Shawn had given up on the Pez dispenser and was trying to stuff his things back into his bag. He was largely failing; things kept falling back out and he couldn't seem to operate the zipper. Gus had no idea why he had brought along a He-Man action figure and was suddenly wishing they weren't in public. Lost child, indeed. His friend finally succeeded in putting away the contents of his backpack, and stood; but as he did his eyelids fluttered a bit and he stumbled slightly. He put a hand to his chest and laughed a little uncertainly.

"Uh…you okay?" With Shawn, it was never clear when there was cause to actually be concerned, and when he was playing for dramatic effect. He did seem unusually hyperactive, even for someone who quite frequently acted like a the Roadrunner on Red Bull.

"Ooh, exciting! Beatboxing it out in there. Badumpdumpdump," Shawn thumped his hand against his heart and added in a bit of a dance. Then he suddenly seemed distracted and thoughtful. "Wait. Gus, which kind of medicine are you supposed to take before a long flight? You know, to sleep? Cold medicine, right?"

"…Shawn….what did you take?" He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"Don't be a token semi-regular male nurse on Grey's Anatomy, Gus. I feel good. I feel pretty great! Ooh, I should probably take another dose, just to be safe." He started fishing around in his many pockets, pulling out and putting away more little things than should reasonably be contained in an adult man's jacket. Finally, he found the right one and pulled out a small bottle of bright red liquid.

"Let me see that." Gus snatched the bottle from Shawn's hand. It was cold medicine, all right; but it was the kind that had been banned because people were using it to make meth. It was, in nearly every way, the exact opposite of what he should've taken to help him sleep on the plane. "Shawn, this was taken off the market! Where did you get this?"

"From one of the street vendors in Times Square, last night. What a nice guy…think he was from Trinidad…or Trident…or Triforce…Tri something…do you think I can get Razzles around here somewhere?" He'd fought tooth and nail that they leave Santa Barbara a day early just so they could spend a little time in Manhattan, much of which had involved eating and trying to stop Shawn from stepping in front of taxis. Now he was standing on his tiptoes and peering around the concourse like an overcaffeinated meerkat. This was going to be a long trip.

"You bought street medicine? Who does that?!" In fact, he hadn't known street medicine was even a thing until just now, but Gus' ire somehow never waned despite Shawn's seemingly endless supply of stupid ideas. His fussing generally hid at least a little genuine concern; and in this case, he was mentally reading the Physician's Desk Reference on side effects and wondering if he needed to call an ambulance.

"Apparently I do…" Once again, Shawn seemed confused and distracted, and waved at one ear as if irritated by a bug. "Gus…do you hear a funny ringing noise? I think it might be one of those CIA flies with the cameras on their backs."

Gus found that he was looking forward to the free wine in First Class - he'd insisted - more than was totally reasonable.

 

* * *

 

"Bag check!" Just as Dean's duffel was exiting the x-ray machine, an agent grabbed it off the conveyor and flagged down a co-worker.

"Hey, that's my bag--" Dean was saying just as a six foot six heavyset man who looked like he should be the bouncer at a body-building club stepped up to take his bag. His eye level view was of the man's formidable pectoral muscles, which his uniform was straining to contain.

"Step over here, sir," he said with an enormous voice, indicating a metal table off to one side. Dean obediently padded over in his socks, carrying his boots. He stepped up to the table, but another agent pulled him back, pointing down at a pair of painted foot-shaped outlines on the floor. He felt ridiculous standing there in his socks watching a stranger manhandle his things, and tried craning his neck forward to see what the agent was doing; but the female agent at his elbow stepped closer in an intimidating statement. She was much shorter than he was, but of heavy build and with a no-nonsense set to her jaw. He'd had a lunch lady rather like her in one of the many schools they'd drifted through. She was, to put it politely, not his type; and he was on their turf here. He tried on a friendly smile, but she didn't move a muscle. Dean looked down at his feet and wiggled a toe through a hole in the top of the left one. The tile floor had an antiseptic chill that seeped up through the worn fabric.

Sam had secured his own things from the conveyor, and came over to see what was going on. His stomach tightened when he saw. Surely Dean hadn't been foolish enough to…

The burly agent pawing through the bag held up a bottle of whiskey, gingerly as if it was primed to explode. He exchanged a look with the female agent, who crossed her arms seriously. "Sir, you can't carry any liquids or gels larger than three ounces."

"Three ounces? Lady, I have three ounces on my breakfast cereal." Dean unleashed his best flirty wink, but she was unamused.

"Sir, we're going to have to confiscate that." Her latex gloves tightened across her knuckles with a squeak. Dean shuddered involuntarily.

"What? How am I going to blow up a plane with a bottle of whiskey? Seriously, people." He looked to Sam for backup in thinking it was hilarious, but his brother's square jaw was bunched tight and his eyes were shooting laser beams of disapproval.

"Uh, Dean--" Sam stepped forward and put a hand on Dean's shoulder. This was going downhill faster than a cheetah on a bobsled.

"No, Sammy, this is ridiculous! Next they're going to tell me I can't carry a knife." He pointed an accusing finger at the male agent.

Raising an eyebrow, the big man dug with more fervor into the bag, casting aside plaid shirts and spare jeans until he pulled out one of Dean's favorite knives, in its sheath. Generously wrapping it in tinfoil had worked on the x-ray machine (or so he'd thought), but no live human was going to mistake it for a burrito. The TSA agent unwrapped the large knife then shook his head.

"I like a really close shave…" he ventured, adding a calculated bashful grin. It was not well-received.

"Sir, we're going to need you to step over here…" She placed a firm hand on Dean's back and began guiding him towards a door marked 'PRIVATE SCREENING ROOM'. 'Private' had never seemed more ominous.

"Wait, my shoes--" Alarmed now, Dean tried to turn back and reach for them, but she spun him back around.

"That's fine, sir, you won't be needing those. We're going to have to ask you a few questions."

The big TSA agent took Dean by the arm and nearly picked him up off the floor as he escorted him off. Sam watched them go helplessly, as Dean peeked over his shoulder and made a face that said "I have no idea what I did!" He only got a resigned but slightly sassy shrug in return.

* * *

 

Sam had been fidgeting anxiously on a bench for nearly a half hour when his brother finally emerged from the interrogation room, carrying a visibly less full duffel bag. If he was out and not in cuffs, it must have gone as well as could be hoped. Sam held out his shoes for him.

"Am I walking funny? Sadistic bastards. Give me a demon any day." He was, as a matter of fact, walking funny; like a cartoon cowboy in a hemorrhoids commercial. Sam wasn't going to say so.

"What? I wasn't going to wander around totally unarmed," said Dean indignantly. He sat down on the bench, gently and with a slight wince, and laced up his boots.

Sam raised a disapproving eyebrow. "And the whiskey?"

"It was duty free…" he replied, sheepishly, and a bit wistfully.

"That's not even--" Sam began, but then he didn't have the heart to continue. Sometimes Sam wondered whether Dean had any blood left, or if he ran on whiskey the way cars ran on gasoline. Something else he wasn't in the mood to discuss. "You're lucky we left the fake IDs in the car. A bag full of counterfeit law enforcement badges would've landed you in Guantanamo."

Finally, Dean looked somewhat ashamed of himself. He looked rather pitiful, shifting around in his clothes like he was crawling with cooties. It was enough for Sam to relent with a sigh and slap him on the back.

"Come on, we're going to miss our flight."

They set off down the concourse together, Dean pausing after a few steps and giving each leg a shake in turn, before starting again with a more normal gait.

"They'd better have enough tiny bottles of booze in business class for a tiny bender followed by a tiny bar fight," he growled to no one.


	4. S.W.A.K.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like in one of your slashfics. But not really. Also, wonderful things come in lumpy packages.

    When Crowley returned with his delivery, Moriarty was deep in concentration, writing in a small black notebook. He didn't turn or stop, but there was a slight straightening in his back to make it clear it hadn't escaped his notice. When he finished what he was writing, he snapped the book closed, casually pulled the sheet a little further over the device in front of him, and turned to the new arrivals.  
    Crowley stood beside two non-descript and lazily evil flunkies who were supporting a sizable and lumpy black velvet sack between them, which was heavily embroidered with strange gold symbols and drawn up with a heavy cord.  
    "Package for one James Moriarty," the demon said with a wide grin. He was quite pleased with himself.  
    Moriarty was less impressed. "What took so long?"  
    "It's not like we could just run down the shops." Crowley twitched a hand to his two demon cronies, who dropped the sack on to the floor. The sack let out a surprised yelp when it hit. Moriarty regarded the sack carefully. He gave the bag a sharp kick as though checking the tires, which elicited a muffled groan from its ambiguous contents. This seemed to satisfy him.  
    "Was the sack completely necessary?" Moriarty shoved his hands in his pockets and raised an eyebrow. It briefly crossed Crowley's mind that the little twat could manage to look underwhelmed riding shotgun on the flaming Hindenburg.  
    "No. Not in the least." Crowley's mouth twitched, a smile aborted halfway when he decided he didn't want Moriarty to share his satisfaction. Still, there was nothing wrong with enjoying your work. "You know, I lost a whole gang of perfectly good - well, perfectly evil - demons snapping up your prize. I hope you have... the appropriate measures in place."  
    "What's that? Concern for my well-being?"  
    "Concern for my investment."  
    "Consider it secure. Safe as houses." He clapped his hands twice, and the lights flicked out. As soon as they did, the ghostly glowing outlines of arcane symbols were visible, crawling across the walls, the ceilings, and the floor in a wicked-looking infestation. Moriarty clapped his hands again and the return of the light hid them from view once more. Crowley let slip an appreciative chuckle.  
    Opening his little black book again, Moriarty was no longer interested in the conversation. "I'll call you when I'm ready for you."  
    "Ah ah uh," Crowley said, waggling his finger. "As you may know, we demons are sticklers for the rules. No deal's a deal until it's sealed."  
    Moriarty gave him a level gaze. "…no exceptions for regular contributors to your cause, I take it?"  
    "It's not a frequent flier's club. I need certain assurances that you'll keep up your end. Binding assurances."  
    "Fine. Quickly," Moriarty sighed, and threw up his hands, like an irritated teenager.  
    "A little matter of the floor graffiti?" He pointed to the devil's trap he was currently standing in.  
    Moriarty grabbed a nasty looking knife with a wavy blade from a nearby table and dragged it across a line of the devil's trap on the floor with a piercing screech of metal on stone. The noise the demon-killing knife made made Crowley shudder involuntarily. The whole thing was a matter of show anyway. Crowley could easily have avoided the trap, since he had come of his own volition. Everything between them was about observing the rituals, while still slipping in as many clear threats as possible. The demon did a little quickstep out of the trap.  
    Side by side, Crowley should have been just the slightest hair taller than Moriarty; but he'd made a point to slip lifts in his shoes to get an extra few centimeters. Every point counted.  
    "The traditional method, I assume?" Moriarty said, dripping with disaffection.  
    He'd show that cocky mortal a thing or two. Crowley grabbed the other man by the shoulders and fiercely planted a kiss on him. To his surprise, Moriarty immediately stepped into the kiss, grabbing Crowley's face and wrapping his leg around the other man's knee. Then he went to town. Crowley was frozen stock still, hands open. It was the same response as could be expected if a large, highly venomous, and carnivorous spider had been crawling up his pantleg throughout the conversation and had suddenly made it as far as the family jewels.  
    The two demon henchmen looked on in horror and disgust alternatively, as their boss' eyes went wide and wild at being kissed like a virgin shepherdess in a two-bit romance novel. They half tore their stares away from the complete wreck happening in front of them, to exchange a look. No one had ever done THAT before. Were they supposed to do something?  
    Crowley finally pulled away, gawping, his cool veneer shattered. He snatched out a silk pocket square and drew it across his mouth. He briefly considered dropping it to the floor and then burning it to ashes, but forced himself to slowly place it back in his pocket.  
    "Was the tongue completely necessary?!" Crowley sputtered, his voice raising to an unfortunate squeak at the end. He pulled his suit jacket down brusquely and glared at Moriarty, who was giving him as innocent and beatific a gaze as a psychopathic serial killer could be capable of.  
    "No. Not in the least," he purred langorously through a Cheshire Cat grin. He nibbled the end of his pinky.    
    Crowley turned on his heel with as much sass as he had left in the tank - which was very little - and snapped his fingers at his flunkies. They hurried to his side with a hint of uncertainty.  
    "I look forward to collecting," the King of Hell sneered. He gave a brutal parting kick to the black sack, then he and his demons blinked out of the room.  
    Once they were gone, Moriarty nearly skipped over to where the sack lay on the floor.  
    "Oh, it's like Christmas morning!" he crowed. Crouching down, he loosened the thick gold rope, pulled it open, and poked his head down to its prisoner. His gagged and bloodied captive let out a tiny confused whimper. He gently brushed the hair out of the angel's eyes, then pinched his nose.  
    "We are going to be the very BEST of friends, you and I, Gabriel," he said, with a smile as warm as the darkest reaches of space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is NOT slashfic, so don't get our hopes up, sorry. This is the most you'll get; the least romantic and most power-play-esque kiss since Hilter snogged Stalin on a drunk bet at the Evil Dictators holiday party. Also, never fear; John and Sherlock and Amy and the Doctor will be back. Can't always switch off fairly due to plot reasons. And thanks again to anyone who's reading this and especially to people who left kudos and compliments, I still can't believe this is amusing anyone besides me but it makes me very happy.


	5. Phobia at 20,000 Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're more likely to die being struck my a meteorite than in a plane crash. But that doesn't mean you have to like flying.

    Gus was not finding his very first trans-Atlantic as dreamlike as he'd hoped. It was definitely not quite as romantic as he'd hoped, generally on the basis of movies that were sixty years out of date. To start with, the captain that had greeted them was a nervous-looking redhead of tiny stature, whose stuttering and awkward welcome had not really instilled any confidence in his ability to pilot an airliner. Apparently in the real world not all British men sounded like sexy assassins. Gus wasn't sure he'd have trusted him with moving his stuff across town, let alone putting his life in the man's hands. Then business class, while much nicer than "steerage", proved to be sorely devoid of jet-setting celebrities. At any rate, if there had been any among the slightly rumpled suits and well-dressed older couples, it was no one he would've been impressed by. He'd also been given entirely the wrong impression about the visual standards of stewardess hiring by the airline's sleek website. At least the seats were as comfortable as advertised.  
    He could easily and happily have slept in an ergonomic leather embrace if Shawn hadn't been repeatedly reaching across him to look out the window ("Can you see anything, Gus?" "We're over the ocean. We will be over OCEAN. There is no view, Shawn."), fiddle with his entertainment system for no reason, and try to prod him into playing a game of "I Spy" that would have largely revolved around the color beige. The effects of Shawn's cold medicine were still going strong well into their fourth hour of flying.  
    "Shawn, stop pressing the call button!" Gus lifted his eye shade for the hundredth time and swatted at Shawn's hand for what felt like the thousandth.  
    "I demand service, Gus! That's what it's for!" Merrily, Shawn kept pressing the button, trying to play Green Day's Basket Case and doing the drum section on Gus' armrest.  
    The same middle-aged flight attendant who had come the other fifty times showed up, looking haggard and like she was seriously considering booting him out of the plane then and there, cabin pressure be damned. It was starting to seem like a better prospect to Gus, too.  
    "Sir -- sir - SIR, STOP THAT. Other passengers are trying to sleep," she whispered fiercely, leaning in close with an intimidating glare. "For the last time, sir, we do NOT have any Razzles onboard the aircraft."  
    "Yes, but WHY?" whined Shawn. "It's a candy…AND a gum! They taste like SCIENCE."  
    "Sir, we do our very best to accommodate all of our passengers needs and wants. But there is a finite amount of space onboard this plane, and you are the first person in my thirty years flying who has EVER asked for Razzles. So, the airline has seen fit to use that space for items of more utility, such as the emergency oxygen supply and the first aid kit. If you press that button again, I assure you that you will require both."  
    "But do you have ANY candy? Pop Rocks? Those little packets of sugar that you put the stick in?"  
    "Sir, you've already eaten all the candy allotment for this flight of 245 persons." She gestured to the empty candy packages littering Shawn's tray, then pointedly plucked a Snickers wrapper from his shirt.  
    "Would you have me treated like an animal? We're being treated like animals, that's what. A herd of sheep in a tubular metal pen, being--"  
    The flight attendant cut Shawn off with a fierce shushing, then snapped her fingers to summon a compatriot, who handed her a small cardboard box. She set the box down in front of Shawn and turned on her most polite and enthusiastic smile.  
    "Now, here's something special just for our younger passengers," she said, managing to make her polite veneer seem terrifyingly acidic. She straightened back up, smoothed back her silver hair, and turned militantly on her kitten heels.  
     The box was boldly labelled 'Junior Pilot Fun Pack' and emblazoned with a smiling cartoon airplane. Shawn clucked his tongue in disapproval as she sauntered away, then peeked inside the box.      
    "Ooh, crayons," he said with a grin, holding up a coloring book.  
    Gus lowered his eye mask again with a sigh. Maybe he could get a few minutes' peace before Shawn started complaining about the lack of realism in the 'find the difference' puzzles.  
    His hope didn't last long; there was an electronic bing and he was just about to slap Shawn upside the head so hard his great-grandkids would get a headache when he realized it was a the fasten seatbelt sign coming on. There was a short series of rattles, then a sharp bump. Suddenly the free champagne seemed like it had been highly ill-advised, in light of gravity becoming unreliable. He swallowed hard.  
    "Maybe we'll crash on the island from LOST," beamed Shawn. "You can be Piggy!"  
    "That's Lord of the Flies…" muttered Gus, half-heartedly.  
    Next vacation was going to be a vacation from Shawn.

 

* * *

  
  
    A sudden flash of light in the dark night outside illuminated the inside of the plane in stark relief, followed by a loud sound almost like a snapping; for the briefest instant the air felt charged with electricity and the sharp smell of ozone. Then they briefly pitched violently downward, like a car catching air on an unexpected hill. In near unison most of the passengers let out surprised gasps and yelps. Dean's hands involuntarily leapt for the armrests, his eyes snapped tightly closed, and his heart did a fierce fandango in the vicinity of his ears. The plane's altitude corrected almost immediately, but it took Dean a bit longer to relax enough to open his eyes, which he mainly did to peek to his side and make sure the wing wasn't on fire. He didn't really want to know, but figured he ought to; and there were visions of a creature clinging to the flaps he needed to dispel.  
    To his relief, there was nothing there. No monster, rubber or otherwise, and no flames; only a faint mist of rain sliding across the perfectly intact wing.  
    "I thought we were Shatnered," he whispered, his own private monologue escaping into the outside world for a moment.  
    "What?" His brother pulled one earbud out; he had barely reacted to the turbulence or the lightning. Sam had spent most of the flight with his large frame jammed up against the window, trying to distract himself from the discomfort of the cramped quarters with his iPod. He wasn't in a great mood, with his knees going numb because Dean had insisted they not spend some mystery man's money on anything besides economy. Still, his forehead crinkled when he saw Dean's poorly hidden distress. "C'mon, Dean, we both need to get some sleep. Try."    
    Dean was trying to think of something flip to say in response and failing when the PA system came on.  
    "Hi everyone, this is your captain speaking. I just want to inform any of our more nervous passengers who may have been a bit startled by that little lightning just now, that there's no real weather on our radar. We're already past that little whoopsy-daisy--" -- Dean silently mouthed this back, disapprovingly -- "-- and I'm pleased to tell you that it is going to be clear sailing - err - flying from here on. So we'll be turning the fasten seatbelt light off, feel free to move about the cabin."  
    "See?" Sam gestured vaguely in the direction of the cockpit. "It's nothing. Besides, these planes are designed to take direct lightning strikes. Happens all the time."  
    "Wow, that's super comforting," Dean replied sarcastically. It was a little reassuring. He slowly forced himself to release his white-knuckle kung fu death grip on the seat. He breathed in deep and let it out again, frustrated by how shaky it sounded. Sam looked at him quizzically.  
    "Hey, you okay?" Sam's concern just annoyed Dean more.  
    "FINE," Dean snapped, more abruptly than he intended. As the cold sweat was fading, he felt heat rising in his cheeks. "I just need to… get some air."  
    Brusquely wiping away the beads of sweat on his brow, he unfastened his seatbelt and, somewhat unsteadily, stood and made his way as an awkward crab down the narrow aisle, negotiating the jutting elbows and feet of slumbering passengers.  
    "Air? We're on a plane…" Sam mumbled after him, shaking his head and allowing himself the tiniest of smiles at his brother's expense before he went back to his music.

 

* * *

 

      
    The sloping space at the very back of the plane was almost completely empty since the stewardesses - no, he was supposed to call them 'flight attendants' - were out and about. Only one was fussing about in one of the many small square compartments in the wall when Dean came in. She gave him a polite smile which he returned a bit weakly. Under other circumstances, the well-groomed ladies in their pert, starched blue and white uniforms might've provided a great distraction, since at least a few of them were young and nimble enough to manage the mile high club. As it was, the idea made his uneasy gut turn a bit sideways, and he was glad when she bustled off with an armful of cream packages. Once she was gone, he leaned against the interior bulkhead and tried to be reassured by the thrumming vibrations of the plane's engines, pitched to a deep key he could feel reverberating in his chest. Better, but it also made him long for a more familiar tune.  
    At least it was away from the cramped, overcrowded atmosphere of the main cabin. He couldn't see the appeal of a long journey strapped into a bus with a bunch of tourists and depressed businessmen, no matter how much free booze there was. The captain didn't seem like much of…well, a captain, either. Dean didn't like putting himself in other people's hands. Call him a control freak, but this guy seemed like the sort who would go down with his ship right after he was responsible for it going down in the first place. If Dean could've driven across the Atlantic, he'd have done it. This felt like being a dollar store tinned sardine.  
    He was just getting into the steady, peaceful rhythm of the humming engines when he heard another passenger come in, snapping him back to alertness. The guy was a greenish shade of half-dead, which was a good trick given his natural skin tone was a rich chocolate. His eyes were wide and white like saucers, lips clamped shut tight, and he had a hand over his stomach. Dean hoped HE didn't look that bad, and tried not to judge him too much for his 'discount accountant' khakis and button-down shirt. They were, quite literally, in the same boat. Or the same tin can, anyway. A pair of sardines.  
    "Nervous flyer?" he managed, trying to sound gruff and dispassionate.  
    "Enh," his new nerdy comrade-in-arms managed without ever opening his mouth, tilting his head a bit to one side but never changing his expression.  
    "Well, look, brother; I've been in a lot of bad situations--" --he wondered what color the accountant would turn if he knew what Dean's definition of 'bad' was -- "--and I'm still here. This? This is nothing."  
    Just then, the universe's sense of humor kicked in, and the back of the plane bucked like a bronco. Dean slammed his hands against the wall in lieu of anything to grab, and the accountant latched on to Dean's arm. It was only an instant before everything was steady again, and Dean straightened and tried to recover his macho bearing. The accountant stayed where he was, hands tight around Dean's bicep. He seemed to be frozen in terror.  
    "Uh…we should probably go sit back down, huh?" Dean tried to laugh it off. The 'fasten seatbelt' light sprang on with a bong.  
    "Ehm," was the only sound that came from his new friend - well, more like an accessory. Unexpectedly, his eyes went even wider; he grabbed his stomach with both hands and pitched forward into Dean, who grabbed him and tried to push him back upright.  
    "Whoa, whoa, man, if you're gonna toss your cookies…" The dude had suddenly gone slightly limp, and Dean struggled with him until he managed to lean him up against the bulkhead. "You don't do that here. Not here."  
    Dean stepped away, gesturing vaguely to his clothes, and rapped on the head door with his fist. "There's a crapper for that." The accountant said nothing, but the look in his eyes loudly expressed that he was both embarrassed and miserable.  
    "Hey, you're good. Trust me, just... let it all out. You'll feel better." He gave the other man a quick pat on the shoulder, then beat a swift exit before anything else had a chance to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring a weakly-disguised cameo that you will either get immediately, or does not bear mentioning. I couldn't resist. Also, I really like Razzles. 
> 
> Not intended to be Chapter 5, but unfortunately real life will be intervening for the next few weeks. I beg patience if you're reading this "live". Things are very close to seriously going down.


	6. Eliminate the Purple Dinosaur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleep deprivation is catching up with John Watson. Sometimes there's just not enough caffeine in the world.

**March 13th, somewhere between London and Edinburgh**

John Watson was tired. Well and truly tired. As an army doctor, he'd had more than his share of delirious shifts chasing from one dawn to the next, or being jolted from a few hours' peace straight into a crisis. He knew the feeling of caffeine and adrenalin vibrating through his bones, like simultaneous flight and falling. He knew the sensation of reality bending like the rainbowed surface of a bubble, his perception and cognition on the brink of bursting. He was bosom buddies with sleep deprivation. And yet, the addition of Sherlock to this familiar mix - first a depressed Sherlock, now an excited one - was tantamount to the sort of inventive torture the UN outlaws and the Americans use anyway. All it would take to push him over the edge would be speakers playing Barney the Dinosaur. He was just shy of seeing a purple dinosaur already. 

Still, when they were finally on the longest leg of their journey to Scotland and riding in blessed silence (in a private cabin at Sherlock's insistence), he found some mysterious and previously inaccessible forty-fifth wind had kicked in and he could not doze off as he had planned. Instead he rubbed at his irritated eyes, massaged the spike at the base of his skull, and watched the countryside speed by in thaumatropic snippets of green, grey and brown. 

Sherlock was sitting in repose on the seat across from him, eyes closed and hands folded against his chin. He'd been totally silent and still since they'd left King's Cross. To any passerby in the narrow hallway of the railway car he would've appeared asleep, but John knew better; and from time to time he could see the motion of Sherlock's gaze still flitting lightly back and forth behind his lids, as if he was reading a story there. Once the initial excitement had begun to wane, he'd become quite introverted. He'd said little since back seat computing while John made travel reservations the previous afternoon, which he had insisted use the provided debit card and be entirely via train.  


Questions were burning in John's mind, as they often did on a case; but there was no point in trying to prise any theories out of Sherlock. John had been turning the invitation over and over in his mind since the moment he'd seen the photograph but had gotten nowhere with any theories of his own. He was haunted by it, the family photo with the x marks over the faces - that mundane, personal moment marred by some outsider. He found it much more befuddling than their work usually was, and he didn't even know how to define 'usual'. As far as the threat went, he only needed to know that Sherlock took it seriously; in that case, there was a family in danger. He needed no further proof to warrant their involvement. His companion might not have admitted to it, but of course neither of them would let harm come to some innocent through their inaction, no matter how unsubtle the trap they were walking into. Sherlock hadn't had to request that he bring his gun. 

What he couldn't figure was anything else, though couldn't stop his brain from churning onward like the wheels of the train in trying to. The steam power of his uncertainty felt like it was coming out his ears. What possible motivation could the sender have? It was altogether too precise, he felt, for a madman. If it was revenge against Holmes, it was thoroughly indirect. What would be the point of inviting anyone else to try and solve - or, rather, prevent - the murder, if that was the goal? Weren't psychopaths usually more into the gloating bits? It was also a complete mystery who these other parties could even be. His own ego aside, Sherlock Holmes really was a singular article, and even if anyone had aspired to or feigned his notoriety they couldn't have done so in secrecy. The mountains of old newspapers that dotted the landscape of 221B were testament to the quantity of information processed by Sherlock's prodigious brain, down to the tiniest detail; to say nothing of the internet. If some amateur had been trying his hand at Sherlock's trade, he'd have been screaming bloody murder from the rooftops. 

"Tell me about the castle." The voice was low and even, but John's thoughts scattered like startled birds. 

"What?" John rubbed his left temple, trying to refocus on the outside world. 

"The castle. You looked it up, before we left," Sherlock said, his eyes still closed. 

"Oh." He wasn't sure he liked the idea of Sherlock looking at his browser history. In fact, he was quite sure he didn't like it. He should start deleting his cookies. (He'd given up password protection in the first week of their co-habitation; whatever he picked, Sherlock figured out immediately. When he'd finally resorted to what he thought was a completely random string of numbers and letters, he'd immediately forgotten it and had to get Sherlock to type it in so he didn't become the proud owner of an high-tech paperweight. So much for random.) 

"Ah. Well, the usual, I suppose? Founded in the 16th century. Bit complicated, not a high-profile family… For the most part seems they had the sense not to get too involved in politics or religion, so it was never besieged. Most of the Dunwadie clan was killed off in one of the Jacobite uprisings--" 

Sherlock made a face like he'd just bitten into a lemon and waved a hand dismissively. 

"No, no, no, John. Forget the history lesson. The here and now. Who owns it now?" 

"Ah. Well." The edge of annoyance in John's voice was clear now, but he tried to focus on the swimming details of what he'd read. "It was refitted as a hotel in the eighties when it was inherited by some English offshoot of the family. Lack of heirs or something. Seems they shot a few films there a while back, some ridiculous sword and sorcery stuff… but I found a local newspaper article that says now the family is in bad straits and may have to sell to some international conglomerate. Quite the local flap about it. Maybe--" 

"It's in English hands now? Good. Slight chance it will minimize risk of the local constabulary bumbling around." He turned his head towards the window, eyes still shut. A brief ray of sunlight broke through the clouds and shone a dim light on the sharp intensity of his face, haloed with loose curls. "And no, John, I sincerely doubt that either a posse of disenfranchised locals or a fiendish gang of foreign investors has set all this up. The architecture?" 

John frowned to himself. It rankled him when he was shot down before he could even voice his theories, but he should've known better. He wasn't in much of a mood for finishing sentences anyway. He sat forward, unfolding the maps he'd found in his mind and laying them out in the open space between them. There was a rectangular outer wall with a main fortified gate, a familiar arrangement of structures built into the same wall and a slightly awkward addition of a more modern castellated home to one side, tacked on to the curtain wall. 

"It's a proper courtyard castle, not just an 18th-century flight of fancy. Established in the early 15th century. The usual - enceinte, great hall, chapel…Nearly all of the buildings are more recent. Seems one building or the other had a habit of catching fire. Some serving girl dropping a candle on the drapery probably. There's an attached palace, which is where the majority of the hotel rooms are. From the reviews I gather the honeymoon suite is quite nice. Five of five stars," he added sardonically. 

His companion didn't reply. There was only a faint rustle of his suit as he crossed his legs and closed the conversation. The light from the window faded away as the sun sank back into the low pillow of the clouds, and Sherlock's face fell into the soft shadows of the coach again. 

John sighed, scooting sideways to avoid the pointed toe of his friend's shoe at the end of his long leg, bouncing with the movement of the car and endangering bits of him he was interested in protecting from harm. Suddenly drowsy again, he leaned his head against the window. The glass was cool against his cheek, and the low rumbling vibrations of the moving train radiated through his brain. He could feel his thoughts sinking into treacle; the morning's caffeine was wearing off. He stared at the trees and fences closest to the tracks, at the point where they went zipping along from individual objects into long lines of motion. The repetition was just easing him along into sleep when a tunnel dropped it all off into black and he sat back up with a start. 

Blearily, he thought the tunnel seemed unusually long for the kind that cut through the gentle, ancient rises of the landscape. He thought he could see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, but it flickered strangely, then grew into a painful brilliance in a flash, only to blink into darkness again. He briefly wondered if he was having some kind of exhaustion-induced seizure. 

That was when he saw it. Or, that was when he imagined it, since it was quite impossible. Not even regular impossible, but purple dinosaur impossible. 

"Sherlock-- Sherlock, did you…" he blurted out in a sharp whisper, but got no response. When he turned back, it was already gone, if it had been there in the first place. 

What was that Sherlock said about impossible things? Eliminate the impertinent… no… whatever it was, he was pretty confident he should eliminate the possibility that he'd just seen a blue police box, of the sort he dimly remembered lazing about the city in his childhood, fly past the window of his train. In a tunnel, no less. Warm light from behind the windows and a flashing light on the roof. Spinning like a mad top, then grazing off the stone side in a shower of sparks - at which point he'd felt it required comment. 

John stood up abruptly, nearly losing his balance when the train turned slightly was spat into daylight again. There was the exact scenery he'd expected to see, entirely free of any vintage police boxes being flown like a bunch of drunks careering around in a stolen Fiat. He cleared his throat, and brusquely straightened his coat. 

"I'm going to get some tea," he announced in the general direction of Sherlock, but without any expectation of answer. "Some very strong tea." 

"VERY strong," he mumbled to himself, as he pulled the door open and shut it again behind him rather more forcibly than was required.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some footnotes for the curious ;)  
> \- The US military has, in fact, used "I Love You" from Barney to torture people. Seriously. I'd like to say I'm surprised, but I'm not (by the song or the use).  
> \- Dunwadie is actually a Scottish surname, but not a common one (in that spelling). I do not know anything about the real family, but the story wouldn't be atypical. Internet searches for name etymology are, in my experience, frequently inaccurate. But of quite old Scandanavian origin, it supposedly means "one who snatched victory". "Dun" is most commonly a color name, a neutral brownish gray to dull grayish brown, usually used in talking about horses; or as an adjective for something dull and gloomy. But it can also refer to either the act of urgently or persistently demanding payment from a debtor, or to the person who is responsible for making that demand (usually for hire). So you could interpret it as a surname meaning "one who snatches victory (from a debtor)".  
> \- You can make your head spin trying to understand the finer points of castle architecture (including things which are NOT castles), and I'm not an expert at all; so there will be inaccuracies. But here are some relevant generalizations. I will repeat this info when they arrive at the castle, with some suggestions of photos to refer to if you like. Quadrangular castles are quite common in Britain, and were a transitional phase between a defensive construction and a domestic house. The buildings comprise the curtain (fortified wall), instead of being contained within them. These buildings would have included a great hall and solar, a separate kitchen and granary (due to risk of fire), stables, and likely a chapel, as well as a well for water supply. Some would have had gatehouses, but not all. The solar is the private living space - as opposed to a great hall for all castle inhabitants - for the family, usually on one of the top floors. The granary buildings have no windows, to protect foodstuffs from the detriments of light, fire, and thieves. The outer walls and fortifications are, collectively, the enceinte. Toilets were built into the wall as a semi-separated tower called a garderobe; apparently moths couldn't stand the smell, so clothes were kept there. It was quite common for castles to be expanded and rebuilt over the years by various family heads, sometimes for defensive reasons like fighting off Vikings but often to prove status. Palaces were usually built later, and are basically modern homes with castle-like aesthetics that served no defensive purpose added to castle properties for living in. There are Scottish castle properties which consist of a quadrangular castle and a palace, some of which are still standing. Many are ruined because they ceased to be practical, and the upkeep is a killer. Incidentally, the most famous Scottish Highland castle you would have seen in famous films of the type John refers to - Eilean Donan Castle - is a modern reconstruction that has basically nothing to do with historical architecture.


	7. Yesterday, Tomorrow, and Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amy questions the Doctor's flying skills.

**TARDIS, some ~~where~~ when in the time vortex**  
    Flying in the TARDIS was feeling altogether too relative for comfort. Even with her arms wrapped painfully tight around the rail and her sneakers braced against the floor, it was all Amy could do to keep from being tossed around willy-nilly like a rag doll. As soon as the coordinates had been entered and they'd taken off (she wasn't sure 'taking off' was accurate), all sorts of alarms had begun sounding, strange lights were pulsing and flashing, and they were being thrown around like a toy boat in a hurricane. As she understood it from the Doctor's staccato, non-linear shouting, that was rather the situation; something was wrong with their trajectory through the time vortex. Her last hope was that there weren't any immense, tentacled Leviathan about in this particular uncharted ocean. She was particularly irritated that what could scarcely be adequately described as 'turbulence' had improved the Doctor's mood, which had previously been dark and silent. Now he was flitting about the console, twisting, pulling and pounding on controls and letting out a stream of simultaneously excited and irritated exclamations. In truth his 'flitting' was done awkwardly, in jerks and starts, as the craft lurched this way and that. He was a hummingbird on an acid carnival ride, and she just wanted off.   
    "Can't you fly it in a straight line?" Amy shouted over the din of the engines. The TARDIS was full of strange noises, but even to her relatively untrained ear a grinding wail like tormented mechanical ghosts in a haunted food processor was abnormal. There was also a spinning red light, and in her experience, red lights were never a good sign. Even on traffic signals they only ever showed up when they were most unwelcome.   
    "There are no straight lines in space-time!" The Doctor stood up from where he was clinging to console controls to waggle a finger at her ignorance, and in the moment of distraction was nearly knocked off his feet. "Hang in there, old girl!"  
    "Fine, just fly it a bit less squiggly-wiggly then!" Amy growled back. The reassurance had been directed at the TARDIS. Amy was feeling a bit ill, and seriously regretting letting the Doctor talk her into a breakfast of seafood crepes at a French cafe in the 1920s (which, from her standpoint, was only three-quarters of an hour previously).   
    "Would you like to have a go?" the Doctor said sarcastically, with an expression halfway between a sneer and a mad grin. He slammed his hand down on a button as he asked, and was displeased with the feeble, fluctuating blue light next to it that resulted. That, and the complete lack of any discernible change to their unsteady flight.   
    "Well, I couldn't do much worse than--" -- she paused as a sudden jerk sent one leg flying out from under her -- "this!"   
    He swung himself away from the console as dramatically as he could while trying not to fall down as the ship started upwards. Amy let out a small, startled yelp, and the possessed machinery noises increased in volume.   
    "Right. One of these controls the pitch, the other one will eject us into the vortex," he said archly, pointing to two side-by-side levers. "Care to venture a guess?"   
     "Okay, okay, touchy much? I just want to land with all my organs in the same place they were when we started!" Amy swallowed hard. Her stomach, in particular, was ready to stage an uprising. A violent one, starting with rioting peasants and ending with someone losing their head. "Can you at least tell me what's going on?"   
    He frowned at her and made two awkward hopping steps to the side to look at the viewscreen, which was covered in a tangled mess of leaping, wavy lines. He prodded the glass disapprovingly with one finger.   
    "This much temporal turbulence is… well, let's just say that even with thousand-wheel drive the stabilizers are…well, not really stabilizing per se." The Doctor made a weak attempt to straighten his bowtie, and blew a strand of hair out of his eyes, only to have his face banged into the screen a moment later.   
    "Turbulence? I hadn't noticed." Amy mustered as much sarcasm as she could while wrapped pretzel-style around the railing.   
    "No, no… none of this is right! Easy flight! I just re-calibrated the stabilizers in 1654!" The Doctor rubbed at his face with both hands, and gritted his teeth in frustration.   
    "Regular maintenance is key…" Amy muttered to herself. She couldn't care less about why the TARDIS was currently doing the Lindy Hop; she just wanted it to stop. She wondered if there were any time sickness bags.   
    "Something…something's interfering with our normal trajectory. But that's impossible! Extremely unlikely. Definitely, probably not…happening right now…oohhhh!!" He flailed angrily a bit, as if he could shake ideas into his limbs like blood. "And the destination is the same!"  
    There was a sharp snap, somewhere between the cracking of a whip and a transformer blowing, and the TARDIS lurched to the left (or whatever was left at the moment, relatively speaking), with a vicious screeching sound. If they hadn't been in the vortex, it would've seemed for all the world like they'd just slammed on the brakes and taken off the side mirrors in a tight fit. The Doctor toppled sideways and went flying into Amy, who caught him as well as she could, but the force sent them sprawling. Tangled up on the floor, they both stared up at the time rotor in the center column of the console, where the familiar green light was turning brilliant white.  
    "It's never done that before…" the Doctor mumbled, gaping.   
    As the light increased in intensity, it was accompanied by a piercing whine. The console room filled with blazing, blinding light and sound. When it subsided, they were left awkwardly cowering with squinched up faces on the floor of the now-stable and quiet TARDIS. They opened their eyes tentatively, and looked around.   
    "Well!" The Doctor sprang up, and his grin leapt back to its familiar spot. He swept the hair back out of his eyes. "Criticize my flying, eh? 10 point landing!"  
    He put out a hand to help her up. Amy got shakily to her feet, just so she could sock him in the arm.  
    "Oh yes, just like the Stig. What was that, anyway?" She still felt green but tried to focus on glowering instead, especially since she was disinclined to answer the Doctor's momentary confused look by explaining her reference.   
    "One question at a time, Amy," he replied, peering at the viewscreen readings again and rubbing his shoulder. "Let's see what's what…hmm…everything seems in order, but there's only one way to be sure."   
    He snapped his suspenders, adjusted his jacket and headed for the door as though it was a Sunday stroll.   
    "What if we're… inside a volcano or something?" asked Amy a little incredulously. The TARDIS had a habit of not landing where they expected, even when it appeared it had. She leaned over the railing as he tripped lightly down the stairs. She needed a moment before exploring the unknown sounded like a brilliant idea again.   
    "No, never happen! Old girl's too smart for that! Definitely Scotland. I can smell the tartan. Just have to make sure it's the right one, eh?"   
    The Doctor swung the door open with a dramatic flourish, and stepped out.   
  
    The TARDIS was in a small alcove, in a hallway that appeared as though it were underground. There were no windows, and only weak light from a bare fluorescent tube hanging from a low stone ceiling. The walls were gray stone bricking, and the floor gray cement. The hall went about ten feet down, with an intersection to the right side about halfway. It was impossible to tell when - or specifically where - they were. He fished his sonic screwdriver out of the inner pocket of his jacket. A cursory scan revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Everything was what it appeared to be. He closed the sonic, but kept it at hand; just in case.   
    Ahead of him was a dead end, so the Doctor somewhat cautiously rounded the corner. Another, nearly identical hall went some distance down. At the end, a rather haggard group of men were huddled around in an intense debate, holding lanterns. He could make out that one had a cricket bat, and was not dressed for sporting.   
    The Doctor considered for a moment, then turned on a smile and began to stride boldly towards them.   
    "Well, hello!" If you didn't know what you were walking into - and he never did - it was always best to make the first move and set a friendly tone. Of course, a friendly tone wasn't much defense if the other party decided to discharge their lasers, but he was an optimist.   
    As he approached, one of the group turned to face him. He was a man with short, spiky hair and an authoritative hunch to his shoulders, who seemed to recognize him immediately, and even expect him; though he also looked quite disapproving.   
    "Doc! Where the hell've you been? You said you were just--"  
    An American. Well, that wasn't scoring points for Scotland, but the readouts seemed on target. Nevertheless, he'd clearly landed where he was supposed to - just not quite when he was.   
    "Uh--ooh, bit not good. Aim's off," The Doctor said quietly through a faltering smile. He paused, unsure what to do. He waved awkwardly. "I most certainly am the Doc…tor. The Doctor, that's me!"  
    The American seemed to find this an inappropriate response. His expression of confusion quickly turned to one of annoyance. It was the face of a parent staring down a petulant child who'd just wrecked a prized vase and blamed it on an imaginary friend. Tough business, though, since imaginary friends weren't always imaginary.   
    "What is the matter with you?! Get your ass in gear, we need you." The American had a gift for frowning with his whole body, from his eyebrows right down to his steel-toed boots.   
    The Doctor spared a moment to wonder whether that was per usual, or if things were going that badly. But he had to resist the temptation to even speculate. Foreknowledge was a profoundly dangerous thing. Clearly, this was not a case of mistaken identity, as he had fleetingly hoped; the rest of the party was now staring at him in confusion as well. He knew that look; the look of people waiting for him to provide a solution to a problem that had the rest of them scared.   
    "Right story, wrong chapter…" The Doctor shifted his weight uneasily, trying to figure out the quickest and most effective way to extract himself from this point in the timeline. In addition to not seeming the type to accept a polite excusal, a bulge under the jacket indicated the American was - unsurprisingly - armed.   
    And now a scared, armed American stranger who would know him in the future was starting to come down the hallway. The Doctor broke off his nervous dance of confusion and spun quickly on his heel to beat a speedy strategic retreat to the TARDIS. He took a step, then hesitated to call back over his shoulder at the flustered and somewhat violent-looking man he was not certain he could outrun.   
    "Be right back! Uh…sort of. Probably." He smiled and laughed nervously, then took to heel.   
    As he was skidding round the corner to where his box was just out of sight, Amy was nervously poking her head out of the door.    
    "Are we--" she started to ask, as she registered his haste.   
    "SPOILER ALERT!" he cried. "Back in!"  
She didn't put up any protest when he hustled her back inside and slammed the doors behind them. The Doctor leaned against the closed doors for a moment, breathing hard and with a slightly wild look.  
    "Doctor…?" Amy asked tentatively.   
    "Crossing our own time stream. Very bad. If nothing else, quite awkward to run into someone after they've met you but before you've met them. They tend to get a touch offended when you can't remember their name." He tried to dismiss her unease with a grin, but it did nothing for his own. As he spoke, he ran back to the console and stooped over it, flicking switches and frowning.   
    "Just a jump to the left…" he mumbled absentmindedly, punching in some numbers on a keypad.   
    "…then a step to the right?" Amy said hesitantly, giving him a look of disbelief.   
    The frown vanished into a bright smile, and he raised one hand above his head and executed a quick spin before putting the TARDIS back into flight.   
    "Let's do the time warp again!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Action in the TARDIS is showing off a) my inability to describe sci-fi sound effects (the normal TARDIS sound is keys scraping piano wire, fyi) making me want to curse the Radiophonic workshop and b) my inadequate knowledge of how 11 specifically operates his console (release the TARDIS flight manual to the general public, BBC. It's not like we can use it to take the real one on a joyride.)


	8. The Hound Suite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean Winchester and special guest Castiel have opinions about interior decorating and fruit baskets.

**Dunwadie Castle, Scottish Highlands, Scotland; Hour One**

So far the only impression that both Sam and Dean Winchester had of Scotland was that they were tired, cranky, and somehow pervasively damp and chilly in a new and exciting fashion. They'd been met at the airport by a small, sullen man in a dark suit with a sign reading 'WINCHESTER' in block letters. He had required no assurance that they were the specific Winchesters he was in service of. In fact, he hadn't had a word to say. He had simply led them to a coal black car of some European make, let them settle into the deep leather seats in back with their luggage at their feet, and off they'd gone.  
    The suburban sprawl had melted into the countryside quickly; first there was some obvious farmland and the villages were closely spaced, but then it was just bare hills and trees. Roads sometimes split off, and there would be a tiny cluster of stone houses and an inn; but generally there was little sign of civilization. Dean tried to amuse himself by looking at the signs pointing to towns he'd never known existed, but after the first fifteen or so "Loch Whayteverthcrap"s he tired of it. He knew well long stretches of winding road with nothing but the drumbeat of tree trunks speeding past in his peripheral vision, but it was a different scenario when he was driving. And when he had his music. The silence was deafening.  
    Attempts at conversation didn't go much better, with both of them jetlagged, uneasy, and rapidly becoming miserable. They got no assistance from the driver, who was still completely silent. Dean had completely lost all hold on what time it was currently, even though Sam kept telling him how many hours ahead the United Kingdom was. Sam had also had a laugh riot trying to explain the entire Great Britain - United Kingdom - Scotland situation, after Dean had insisted upon an explanation which he kept nodding off during. Whatever time it was, Dean's stomach was putting up a growling protest and he was certain it was pie-o'clock.  
    At first he hadn't quite noticed the way the landscape had been slowly rising up to meet them. From time to time, the dark blue deep water of a lake would pop out of nowhere, on one side or both, and these grew more frequent as they headed north. The landscape was bleak and wild, and the fading fingers of winter still had a hold on the foliage; but it had a stark, ancient beauty to it that was unlike any of the many places they'd been in America. Eventually both brothers fell into in entranced quiet and delirious half-sleep as the gentle rolling hills rose ever higher and became slumbering giants, still so long that moss had grown over them in a green and brown blanket. It felt like the ghosts sleeping in this place were much older and stranger. Dean blearily wondered what it would be like to hunt monsters there, in an unfamiliar landscape with no cover and no refuge; then realized he already knew. It would just be different words sung to the same tune.  
    By the time the castle drew into sight, both of them had nodded off. They were awakened abruptly by the crunch of the tires on the gravel drive that ran in a circle in front of the main gate. Sam rubbed his eyes, wiped away a tiny bit of drool from his mouth, and glanced at his watch; they'd driven nearly three hours. The car pulled up to the middle of the drive, then stopped; the driver simply regarded them in the rear view mirror, apparently waiting for them to get out of their own accord.  
    "Dunwadie Castle," he said curtly, when they didn't immediately react.  
    They got out, somewhat clumsy from exhaustion, and stood on the drive stretching their stiff muscles. The car peeled away, spitting out a hail of gravel behind it.  
    "Dammit! What's his problem?" Dean growled.  
    "Who knows…" Sam replied, and then conversation ceased as they turned and saw the entire face of the castle for the first time.  
    It was no stretch to refer to it as a 'castle'; it didn't look in the least like it was only a model. The outer wall was impressive, a sheer face of massive gray stone blocks rising three stories, capped with square teeth. There were windows here and there, black and glass scars in its countenance. A glimpse of an open courtyard beyond was visiible through the only opening in the wall, a gate maybe ten by twenty feet, with the sharp jaws of an iron portcullis raised above it. A background of heavy, threatening clouds it even more imposing.  
    The gate was the only obvious way to go. When they reached the portcullis, there was a folding aluminum easel with a black sign in the style of the invitations. It had an arrow pointing into the courtyard and generally toward what appeared to be the main house beyond, built into the far wall of the castle enclosure. The grim sky began to drip rain as they followed a line of flagstones across the courtyard to a short flight of curved steps and a weighty oak door studded with metal.  
    They stood before the door for a moment, both wondering what exactly was waiting for them inside. Then Sam and Dean exchanged a shrug, and Dean grabbed the massive brass knocker and assertively rapped it against the door. The sound was suitably ominous.  
    Almost immediately, the door swung inward with a creaking groan, revealing… a stooped and somewhat fragile-looking elderly man with white hair and gloves, and a black tailcoat. He peered at them sleepily with hazy eyes. Clearly, the danger would not be immediate.  
    "How may I help you, sirs?"  
    "Uh…Hi there, we're…" Dean hesitated and flicked his gaze upwards as though trying to remember his line; then smiled slightly. "Uh, well, we're Dean and Sam Winchester."  
    "I am Wadsworth, the butler. You are expected. Please come this way." The butler began shambling off without offering to take their bags - though it seemed likely his arms might've snapped off - or waiting to see if they followed.  
    "It's kind of worrying how weird that felt, right?" Dean whispered to his brother.  
    "No fake IDs, no stolen cards, no getups…just…us." Sam considered this, trying to remember the last time they hadn't pretended to be someone else. "Yeah, it's kinda weird."  
    Whatever impression they'd gotten of castles from movies, Dunwadie Castle failed and succeeded in equal parts at meeting their expectations. The main entry was just a hallway with a small desk. While there was a large iron chandelier, it wasn't nearly high enough for any swashbucklers to swing from. Overall, it was much smaller and darker than they'd have thought; but just as full of ancient Persian rugs, creepy old paintings of pansy-looking lords, and the occasional decorative sword as Hollywood had led them to believe.  
    The butler directed them to sign the guest registry, while he retrieved an ancient looking key with a wooden tag from a hook behind the desk. Sam noted they were the first name on this page of the register. There was no sign or sound of anyone else around, for that matter.  
    Wadsworth led them up a squeaking staircase with a threadbare runner and down a narrow hallway lined in slightly unsettling portraits. He stopped in front of a short wooden door marked with a hand-painted silhouette of a hunting dog, frozen in a point at invisible prey. He unlocked it with unsteady hands and a clunking of ancient metal, and swung it inwards.  
    "Your accommodations, sirs," pronounced Wadsworth, holding the door open with one white-gloved hand and proffering the key to Dean with the other. "Mind your head."  
    Sam did have to stoop down to get through the door, and only narrowly avoided striking his head against the stone lintel in spite of the warning. Inside was a surprisingly large room, its stone floor covered in a patchwork of carpets. There were two narrow beds, not overly fanciful in design or bedding, with posts made from polished birch trunks. A sizable fireplace, a fire already lit, occupied one wall. A crossed pair of antique shotguns hung above it, and comfortable looking armchairs and a small couch sat in front. There was also a long, deep window seat piled with cushions opposite the door, and a small wooden table and three chairs in the center of the room. It wasn't a five-star resort, but it might as well have been the Plaza compared to the kind of place they usually stayed.  
    "Dinner will be promptly at 8; you will hear the bell. The master of the house does not tolerate tardiness. Unless there is anything further, I shall leave you to clean up."  
    Without waiting for a reply, Wadsworth left and closed the door behind him, leaving the Winchesters alone to explore their room.  
    "Not bad," Dean murmured approvingly. "I thought it'd be more…Disney princess or something. Hunting lodge, I can work with."  
    An unreasonable amount of the soft surfaces were clad entirely in assorted plaids. Dean threw his duffle onto one of the beds with impressive accuracy, stripped off his damp jacket and flopped down in one of the armchairs before the fire. He practically vanished into it, camouflaged in a jungle of plaid upholstery and pillows that were nearly identical to his shirt. He propped his feet up on a small wooden ottoman and let out a tired sigh. The air in the castle was anything but toasty warm, but the fireplace was offering a nice illusion.  
    "Yeah, it's…cozy," Sam agreed, but with some reservation. There was something a little too welcoming about it, and it made him uneasy. He couldn't put his finger on it. Maybe it was just the whole scheduled murder thing.  
    Not quite ready to kick back and relax, Sam examined the paintings on the walls. Someone had a particular fondness for hounds, since it was the sole subject represented. Hounds of all kinds were rendered in great detail in dark, heavy oils, in small frames and large; all posed to show their sharp focus and intent. He supposed they were the long-gone pets of generations of Dunwadies.  
    "If I just had a beer…from now on, let's stick to domestic monsters, yeah?" Dean's voice issued from the armchair he'd disappeared into. It protected him from seeing the judgmental look his brother was directing his way.  
    "Don't you think we should go investigate the castle or something? We need to find this family."  
    "We're on a deadline, I know," said Dean, waving a defeated hand from over the arm of the chair. "But we need Cas first."  
    "Okay, so pray to him or whatever."  
    Dean stood up from the chair angrily, causing a little rockslide of throw pillows that he had to awkwardly step over.  
    "What do you think I was just doing?" Brandishing a small pillow with a cross-stitched beagle on it was not helping Dean's case. "He's not my--"  
    "Dean." Both boys jumped when the angel in question appeared abruptly, heralded only by a faint sound like distant birds in flight. He was standing with his back to them, facing the window.  
    "Dean?" Castiel was currently addressing one of the myriad dog portraits.  
    "…uh, over here." Dean waved his hand, then realized he was still holding the beagle pillow. He threw it on to the couch a bit sheepishly. "The hell you been, man?"  
    "I… encountered some difficulties getting here," Castiel said uncertainly, turning to face them. He seemed disoriented and looked around the room in confusion. "This is… the castle?"  
    "Uh…what kind of difficulties?" asked Sam.  
    "I don't know. I don't understand it." Castiel was squinting intensely, gray-faced, and wavering ever so slightly from side to side where he stood. He seemed a bit distraught. "I focused on your location, but the…signal was very weak. Then I was here, but you were not, and then it was as if something - pulled me elsewhere. Sideways. Or possibly…diagonally. I can't really be sure of any direction, it's all--"  
    The angel took a step towards them, and started to falter. Dean leapt forward and immediately grabbed his shoulder to steady him, and just in time. Castiel put a hand to his head, as if making sure it was still attached to the rest of him.  
    "Slow up, man, forget that. Is there something wrong with your juice?" Dean's concern was more apparent than he intended.  
    "No, I… it felt like an outside interference. Somewhat like the sensation of the angel banishing sigil. In fact, I -- I still feel quite strange--"  
    "Whoa, sit your feathery ass down. I'm not gonna catch you if you swoon." Dean steered the unsteady Castiel over to the window seat and pushed him down into a sitting position with a firm hand.    
    "Uh.. Cas, where are the weapons?" Sam didn't really want to bring it up, but the bag Dean had entrusted to the angel was absent.  
    "I…I don't know. I'm sorry, Dean," Cas looked up at Dean sadly. At their best, his puppy eyes could rival Sammy's. Dean had to look away to stay annoyed about it. Neither of them saw Sam roll his eyes.  
    "No, no, it's fine. Just in a creepy castle with a mystery monster and all we've got is an angel with a busted GPS and…" -- Dean surveyed the room for any weapons of opportunity, but was not pleased with the results -- "…some antique candlesticks."  
    "Maybe I can go back for --" Castiel began eagerly, though he was still the color of wax himself.  
    "No. No, Cas, you shouldn't risk it. Not until we know what the hell's going on." Dean thumped the angel on the shoulder reassuringly. He picked up an ornate brass candlestick from a small dresser, tossing the candle itself aside and checking the heft by tossing it from one hand to the other and casually flipping it up in the air. It seemed to pass muster and he gave an approving nod. "Besides - can't argue with blunt force."  
    Dean's smirk flipped immediately into a battle-ready pose when there was a knock on the door. Never mind that bad guys didn't generally knock; they had to be ready for anything here. He threw the candlestick to Sam, who moved into position just out of sight to one side. Dean cautiously opened the door; there was no one there, so he stepped out into the hall. Sam couldn't see what was happening.  
    "Dean?"  
    "Well, I'll be damned," came Dean's voice from outside, followed by a laugh.  
    "What is it?" asked Sam, popping out of hiding.  
    "Would you look at this!" Dean was grinning from ear to ear, and holding up a large, heavy basket, wrapped in iridescent cellophane and secured with a bright red bow.  
    "A… fruit basket?" said Sam, disbelieving. He leaned in close to try and peer through the plastic as Dean proudly brought the massive basket into the room and started clearing a space for it on the table. "Wait…is that…a gun?"  
    In response, Dean let out what from anyone else would've been described as a girlish giggle. It was somewhat disconcerting, on several levels. Castiel and Sam exchanged an incredulous glance.  
    "Wait, look, there's a card." Sam pulled a small card from where it was tucked into the ribbon, a split second before Dean merrily set into ripping the plastic open. "'Compliments of your host'."  
    More joyfully than quite seemed appropriate, Dean pulled the contents of the basket from their nest of crinkled brown paper. Sam and Castiel looked on, their faces shifting between amused, confused and disturbed, as he happily disgorged the basket's contents onto the small table.  
    With everything spread out on the table, Dean's face finally fell back into a habitual glower as the weight of it settled on his brow. Without thinking, he'd carefully sorted it. There were two .45 handguns and enough clips to stage a small military coup; a Bowie knife, two smaller tactical knives, a penknife and an especially brutal looking switchblade. Next to these he'd laid a good dozen feet of coiled narrow climbing rope, a roll of duct tape, and three flashlights. Finally - and most interestingly - there was a small plastic spray bottle emblazoned with a cross, a large red paint marker, three paper packets of salt, a lighter…and a bottle of whiskey.  
    All three of them surveyed the haul for a long, silent moment. The Winchester boys had never had an Easter basket, and suddenly it seemed just as well. The hunter's version was a rather grim picture.  
    "Well…wow. Ain't that the welcome wagon," Dean finally said. "This is just…disturbingly thoughtful."  
    "I'm with you on half of that," Sam replied, looking quite skeptical and concerned.  
    "I thought fruits were traditional…?" The angel was looking from Sam to Dean and back again, trying to get a handle on the appropriateness of weaponry as a welcoming gift. He was getting mixed signals.    
    "I'm serious. This is both the nicest… and the creepiest gift I've ever gotten. I'm really conflicted." Dean scratched his head, gazing askance at their haul as if a slightly different angle would make it all come clear.  
     "It's still not much," Sam pointed out. "Especially since we have no idea what we're up against."  
    "At least we are not entirely unarmed," Castiel added, somewhat apologetically.  
    "Hey, I got groped by a latex-wearing rent-a-cop for my efforts, thanks." Dean grimaced at the memory.  
    "Don't you think that it's weird, though?"  
    Dean frowned at his brother. "What about this ISN'T weird, man? Do we have to question good news?"  
    That was Sammy, though; he'd find a thread and pick at it until the whole thing unraveled. Dean was pretty okay with just waiting for that to happen on its own, which was bound to happen sooner or later, and not worry about hurrying it along. The majority of the time he could be quite an optimist about his pessimism.  
    "No, but…this room," insisted Sam, gesturing to their surroundings. Dean had to admit that one dog painting was looking at him funny. "Cas' transport hiccup. Guns wrapped up with a bow that show up at the door right when we're trying to figure out how to kill monsters with a candlestick. I mean, look, there's even stuff for ghosts and demons--"  
    It took only a split second after there was a girlish scream from the previously unnoticed closet before the boys had crossed the room and dragged out two scrambling, yelling strangers. It was only a second after that when their confusing caterwauling - something about a spider, strangely, and 'please don't hit us' - was abruptly cut off by Castiel dropping them both unconscious to the floor with a touch. It took a little longer for the three of them to reach a conclusion about to do with the intruders, staring at the two awkwardly crumpled figures on the floor.  
    "Well, I don't know about you but right now, I'm not going to look a gift basket in the mouth," Dean quipped, ripping off a piece of their brand new duct tape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Winchesters travel a lot, but everything tends to look like Vancouver (wonder why that is). So who knows what they've really seen of the country. Sometimes I wonder if the Winchesters ever stop at roadside attractions (before the whole Mystery Spot debacle, I mean). Have they been to the Corn Palace? Somehow I can believe Dean might get excited about the world's largest ball of twine, but I'm not sure how he is on scenery. For my part, I've never been to the UK, and my Glaswegian friend generally gave me the impression that he hated Royal Mail and preferred California. So forgive any inaccuracies relating to Scotland, castles, or handguns and chalk it up to my lack of experience with any of those things.
> 
> And I'm really sorry about that pun.


	9. The Hare Suite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shawn reflects on how bunnies led to being tied to a chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've split this chapter in half for length. Also felt it worked better with the narrative device trying to avoid retreading too much ground, which has been a challenge with four parallel storylines. 
> 
> This is the FINAL chapter which will not properly be a crossover. Things are going very perpendicular. Gird your loins.

**Dunwadie Castle, Scotland; Hour One (Again)**   
    As he often did in times of crisis, Shawn Spencer called upon his amazing talent for flashbacks. He found reflecting on the past often made the present much clearer. Especially if there were sound effects. But then, pretty much everything he did had sound effects; in his head, anyway. Besides, even though he was coming around he found that the world of the present still felt muddled and difficult to focus on. So he kept his eyes closed, pretended he was still unconscious, and hit mental replay on how he'd wound up in this situation.   
    When they'd arrived at the castle, he and Gus had been embroiled in an argument about events at the airport, just as they had been the entire trip up into the country. Shawn had come down from his medication high halfway through the customs line, Gus had spent half the flight in the head, neither of them had slept; and as a result both were in a dark mood and taking it out on each other. Their driver had rolled up his privacy screen after the first five minutes. At one point both he and Gus and tried doing the same, but imaginary barriers just didn't quite pan out, no matter how aggressively they mimed rolling them up. Besides, they had to keep rolling the invisible glass down again to get in the last word.   
    "If it hadn't been for my travel smarts and preparedness--" Gus was insisting as they stepped up to the door of the castle. It was an unnecessarily large door, really; it was just ostentatious.   
    "If it wasn't for your 'travel smarts and preparedness', we wouldn't have had to run from the cops because they caught me publicly relieving myself into a bottle!" Shawn cut him off.   
    "It was a personal portable toilet, Shawn. Lonely Planet says you should never travel without one. Who knows what kind of facilities you'll be up against when you're traveling?"   
    There was very little that Gus hadn't read a book on, and Shawn found it extremely exasperating sometimes. He figured between Brave and Highlander: The Series, he knew everything worth knowing about Scotland. Only suckers bought tour books. Admittedly, they had gotten slightly lost trying to find the right baggage claim, which had led to not being near a restroom, which had then led to the bottle incident.   
    "This isn't a third world country, Gus!" Shawn was pretty sure it wasn't, though he hoped there wasn't going to be a quiz on which countries were in the second world. He wondered who was responsible for handing out the silver medals.   
    "Exactly, which is why you should've been more discreet!" Gus had tried telling him exactly this at the airport; but this probably shouldn't have involved shouting at his friend in a public place 'you can't pee in a bottle right here, Shawn' just as airport security was walking past.   
    In fact, nothing had actually happened. Shawn had only gotten as far as holding up the bottle and asking what he was supposed to do with it, but airport security didn't know that; so they'd hightailed it. Fortunately for them, airport security wasn't dedicated enough to their jobs to chase after two weird Americans armed with (as far as they knew) a bottle of pee.   
    "I am so done with this conversation right now," Gus said flatly, crossing his arms.   
    "Fine. So am I."   
    They both stood in total silence, glaring at the door. The courtyard was silent; the sky had just started to cloud over, and a pervasive and weighty grayness fell across the scene. Nothing happened. Gus smacked Shawn in the arm.  
    "Are you gonna knock?"  
    "You do it."  
    "You."   
    "We could be walking into untold dangers. Let's just set our petty differences aside for now, okay?" Shawn was terrible at pretending to be the responsible adult, but it didn't stop him trying.   
    "If we're walking into untold dangers, you're going first," Gus declared.   
    Shawn clucked his tongue at Gus in disapproval, but got the same in return. He didn't have the patience to maintain the stalemate (and given their history, it could easily have lasted for hours), so he grabbed the brass ring on the door and rapped out 'shave and a haircut'.   
    In the time it took to wait for a response, Shawn quickly produced a beret from his backpack and put it on, much to Gus' surprise (he had rarely seen Shawn in a hat, let alone a beret). He cleared his throat and shook out his limbs as if getting into character, and was ready when the door was finally opened by a little old man.   
    "I'm Lord Clarence MacDonald," Shawn boldly announced in an extremely heavy and fake Scottish accent. "And this is my lovely assistant, Highlander MacLeod."  
    "There can be only one," Gus intoned gravely, joining in.   
    "We've come to see the tapestries!"   
    "The... tapestries?" The little old man stared at them blankly.   
    "Are you dense, man?" cried Shawn, hamming it up another level. "This is a castle, isn't it? There _are_ tapestries?"   
    The elderly fellow considered this for a moment, leaving Shawn awkwardly frozen in a theatrical pose with one hand raised. Then he let out an ancient-sounding, weary sigh like a fall of brittle leaves.   
    "I think you will find, sirs, that while we do have some wonderful tapestries, the castle does not boast any hidden Nazi bases amongst its many amenities," he said dispassionately. If he'd been any less amused, he'd have come back around full circle to hysterics. "Also, you may find pretending to be a Scottish lord in Scotland is even less effective than in a film set in Germany."   
    Shawn and Gus gaped at the man, then Shawn slowly removed the beret, quite sheepishly.   
    "Hm. Guy knows his movies," Gus murmured approvingly. Then he elbowed Shawn in the ribs, knowing full well he'd reciprocate.   
    "Huh. I was kinda hoping I'd get to punch some Nazis," Shawn whispered to his friend, before addressing the butler - who was now looking visibly annoyed - again. "I see that you are sharp as a tack, my good man. I am, in fact, psychic detective Shawn Spencer. This is my partner, Burton Guster."   
    "You are expected. Right this way, sirs; I need to sign you in."   
      
    Shawn's primary impression of the castle was that it was cramped, badly lit, and significantly lacking in suits of armor. It looked like his dad had decorated it; it was just lots of dull old knick-nacks. All of his imaginary exploits involving actual castles involved suits of armor, usually on him. How cool would he look with one of those spiky death ball things? There was nothing to work with here. And no other guests around to serve as an audience, either.   
    "Ah, here it is, sir. Just your signature, please." The butler - or was he the owner? - presented them with a ratty looking guest book and placed a credit card receipt on top.   
    Shawn picked up the pen to sign, then looked closer at the receipt and frowned. "Wait, who's 'Cyan'?"  
    "Sian, sir, as you said," the butler replied slowly, as though speaking to a child.   
    "No, it's 'Shawn', not 'Cyan'. I'm not a Norwegian model turned pop artist," Shawn persisted indignantly. "And who spells 'Spencer' with an 's'?"  
    "Spenser for Hire…" Gus offered. He'd hit the fatigue wall and was leaning on the wooden counter looking bored.   
    "You're not helping, Gus. What kind of spelling heathens are you people? I've seen your road signs. Disastrous."   
    The butler didn't move a muscle for a long moment, until Shawn felt really awkward about his shtick falling on unappreciative ears. Gus had let his eyes drift closed. Finally, unsure what to do, he just slid the receipt back towards the butler.   
    "With a 'c'," he repeated.   
    "Let me correct that for you, sir," the man replied tersely. He scratched out the name in pen and rewrote it, without looking down.   
    Shawn snatched it back from him. "Okay, now it clearly says 'Cpencer'. I will be writing a very harsh review on TripAdvisor, mister. VERY harsh!"   
  
    The old man led them up to their room in silence, but the particular hunch of his shoulders said loudly that he had no fondness for arrogant Americans who don't know when to be quiet. Gus was in a sympathetic mood and not responding much to Shawn's ongoing narrative. Shawn himself was somewhat delirious and not really paying attention to what he was saying.  In the end he only remembered when they reached their room.   
    There was a slightly cartoonish outline of a rabbit on the wide wood planks of the door, where a number might normally have been.   
    "A bunny?" Gus said with some displeasure.   
    The door next to theirs was marked with an eagle, and the way they were painted made it look like the rabbit was running scared from the incoming eagle's claws. It seemed a little inauspicious.   
    "Rabbits can be dangerous! What about…" Shawn considered for a moment. "Bunnicula?"  
    "You know that book gave me nightmares, Shawn!"  
  
 _In hindsight, it had given Shawn nightmares, too. Something about fluffy things with fangs. It wasn't right._   
  
    Shawn's reminiscing was interrupted by a clear sentence distinguishing itself from the hazy muttering of voices in the room. A male voice, gruff and gravelly like he'd been gargling rocks. He wasn't immediately surprised that the accent was American.   
    "He's wearing a SWEATER VEST. Who does that?"   
    "Uh, normal people, probably." The second male voice was younger sounding and smooth.   
    "The hell with that." There were sounds of boots scuffling on the wood floor. "Wait a minute… I think I KNOW this guy."   
    Through the lingering haze, Shawn thought it was odd that Gus knew someone in Scotland. How had they gotten into the room again? Oh yes, Gus had been trying to tell him it was illegal…  
  
    "Shawn, you can't just break into someone else's hotel room."   
    "We have to investigate, Gus. That's what we do."   
    "Can't we investigate in the hallway?"   
    "No. Besides, you can't be arrested for breaking and entering in a foreign country."  
    "I'm really sure that's not true." Gus was too tired to argue properly about it.   
    "Look, we passed maybe 8 rooms coming down here? All of them have numbers."  
    "So?"  
    "Ours doesn't have a number, it has an animal. Don't you think that's weird?"  
    "I think it's weird it's a rabbit." Gus was just not going to get over this bunny thing. Maybe it was a phobia. Easter-related trauma.   
    "Look, Gus -- these three rooms, they have animals too," he pointed to the door next to theirs and the two opposite it. "There are supposed to be other people coming. Maybe we can find something out about them."  
    "What if they're IN their rooms?"  
    "We knock first, Gus." Obviously.   
  
   _In hindsight, Shawn wasn't sure at all what he'd thought they might learn by breaking into a stranger's unoccupied hotel room. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. They usually did._   
      
    Gus had the door open in under a minute. Shawn wasn't sure if he was more shocked that he knew how, or that he'd brought lock picks on what he thought was a vacation.   
    "Recreational lockpicking club. Every third Thursday."   
    "How many hobbies do you HAVE, man? And where do you find the time?   
    "I don't spend my weekends binge-watching Netflix in my pajamas."   
    "Twin Peaskend was your idea, Gus." It was.   
  
    They were aimlessly poking around the room and swiftly coming to the conclusion that it wasn't a very productive break-in when the sound of a key in the lock made them jump like - well, he was sorry to say, rabbits. Gus immediately began spinning in circles, trying to find a place to hide. He was failing to cover himself with the curtains when Shawn grabbed his arm and dragged him towards the corner.   
    "Quick, Gus!"  
    "What--" Gus didn't get the question out before Shawn had flung open a small door he hadn't even noticed and shoved him inside, before following after. "Shawn, we are IN A CLOSET."  
    They were most definitely in a closet. Apparently medieval Scotland wasn't big on walk-ins, as it hadn't been intended to hold two full-grown men; their heads were pressed against a shelf and elbows and knees were all turned at strange angles and shoved in uncomfortable places. If they twisted right, they could just barely see out through the louvered doors, peering out of their dark cupboard at stripes of the bright room beyond. Gus was more towards the front and had a better view.   
    "Shh!" Shawn hissed, clapping a hand over Gus' mouth when he saw his friend's eyes go wide.   
    They both froze in place and tried not to breathe loudly or think about sneezing as the room's real occupants came in..   
  
_In hindsight, he probably should have been listening more closely to the conversation instead of considering what 'out of the closet' joke was best if they were discovered._   
  
    In the end, he never had a chance to make his joke anyway. It wasn't the abrupt appearance of the business man out of thin air, or the pile of weapons, or even all the talk of the supernatural that finally did the both of them in. It was, in fact, the meeting of small but intrepid spider (who had every right to be there, or at least a much better case than either of them) with the bare dome of Gus' head that sent them tumbling out of the closet. Gus did his awkward bug dance, with his hands waving frantically like a mad priest exorcising demons. It didn't work well in the confines of the closet, and his flailing sent the minute eight-legged critter sailing towards Shawn. It beat an immediate retreat down his shirt, and there were really only so many full-grown men screaming like girls and jumping around that one closet could contain.   
    Shawn and Gus barely had a moment to assess their newly exposed situation - or the current location of the spider - before everything went black.   
  
    The spider, unremarked upon, took the opportunity to flee back under the skirting board, where things were altogether more sensible.


	10. The Hare(s) and the Hound(s)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shawn comes to a series of incorrect conclusions about being tied to a chair in a castle (and one surprisingly correct one). The action figure generally does not approve.

    In hindsight, they were better off with the (completely harmless) spider. That conclusion hit Shawn just as hard as the smack to the back of the head that brought him back to the present.    
    "Rise and shine, asswipe."   
    The first thing he saw when he looked up was the gravelly-voiced man who had just hit him upside the head with more force than was really justified. Shawn didn't like this guy. And it wasn't just because of the hitting, or the namecalling, or the fact that he was currently tied to a chair; he didn't need to have food poisoning to avoid convenience store sushi.   
    Outside of this dude being an asshole, Shawn's mental playback had shed very little light on why he was tied to a chair. He was a little relieved that Gus - who was just waking up with a groan - was tied to a chair next to him. If you're going to be held prisoner, it's nice to have company you can rely on.   
    The faces of the three men staring down at them were not at all the sort of company he felt comfortable with. They were staring quite judgmentally, which he was used to but seemed premature given they'd just met. Shawn tried hard to shake off his haze and assess the situation and their captors. As he concentrated, time seemed to slow, and the small, important details sprang into sharp relief out of the background texture of the world.   
    The pile of weaponry on the table was not a good sign, and he didn't like the look of the welcoming committee standing over them either. They were like a trio of mismatched nesting dolls, arranged smallest to largest. The shortest was dark-haired and wearing an oversized trenchcoat and a confused expression. He was rumpled like he slept in his clothes, and yet they didn't look like they quite belonged to him. His tie was on backwards, but it seemed deliberate. It was like an awkward costume that his mother had put him in for the school play. The middle one, Mr. Rocky, was much younger than he'd expected from the voice, with dirty blonde hair poking up in somewhat haphazard spikes. The particular glare he was regarding Shawn with was identical to the one his father gave him when he'd failed in some way, like telling his teacher he'd contracted leprosy to get out of gym. But Henry had never had a knife fastened to his belt, and the look had something terrifyingly predatory under the surface. Otherwise, he might have been the sort of actor Jules watched horrible movies for; if not for the punching bag texture of his skin and the baggy, slightly tattered clothes, too. Maybe a model's mug shot. The tallest was taller than was fair, broad-shouldered with long dark hair like a romance novel cover and a serious but much softer gaze. He seemed to shop at the same thrift store from the 1990s as his friend, as he was clad in an almost identical plaid and military surplus combo. He wondered where they were hiding their time machine; he'd like to go back and invest in the internet.   
    Shawn's entire assessment only took a scant few seconds, and aside from their poor fashion sense, led him to the conclusion that the middle one was the one to watch out for. Where the other two shifted uneasily, he stood with his feet wide and planted firmly. He seemed to be challenging the world to try and knock him down, with his arms in position to take a swing right back. Every action figure Shawn had ever owned stood like that. He wasn't sure he was completely ready to deal with a living action figure, especially so soon after a forced nap; so he turned to check on Gus.   
    "I can't believe I'm duct taped to a chair," Gus muttered under his breath when their eyes met. "I did not plan on being taped to a chair, Shawn."  
    "I know." Shawn shook his head sadly, and whispered back, "I should've brought my Indy hat."  
    "Shawn, why would anyone bring an Indiana Jones costume to a murder?" Horrified and embarrassed look number 185 (of 354) from Gus.   
    "Why did _you_ bring a Darth Vader mask?" It was true; he'd had to take it out of its case at security and again at customs.   
    "I TOLD you, that's a sleep aid for my apnea," Gus snapped back, before realizing that they had been steadily escalating in volume. He was no longer remotely whispering, and their captors were staring at them with what was most accurately disbelief, with a healthy side of dislike.   
    "Whoa, Kit and Kat. Now you're awake, you want to spare some attention for the folks with the weapons?" The action figure - no, maybe he was more like a Barbie doll - did not seem amused. "Sammy, do the honors?"   
    The tallest of their captors - Shawn's father would have wept at the sight of his mane of Pantene perfect locks - stepped forward and authoritatively spritzed them each in turn with a spray bottle. Right in the face.    
    "What the--" Gus sputtered, pulling up his lip in distaste. Fortunately, it appeared to be nothing but ordinary water.   
    "Look, guys, there's been some kind of mistake!" Shawn laughed nervously, trying to blink water out of his eyes. He liked to think he was sort of an expert at being held hostage, but this was new. "My friend and I here did NOT book the S&M spa package, thanks."   
    This didn't seem to be the reaction they expected. They looked at each other, confused, and then the Ken doll shrugged. Weirdly, they seemed slightly more relaxed. Maybe they were some kind of religious nuts? It could be some New Age purification thing.  
    "Okay, so that rules one thing out. Start talking. Who the hell are you, and what were you doing in the closet--" Ken caught himself and corrected his statement so he didn't get more details than he really wanted -- "--in our ROOM?"   
    Shawn opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He found was suddenly bereft of any clever explanations for why they'd been screaming in a strange man's closet, but the truth didn't seem like it was going to go over well either. Ken didn't seem to buy patience in bulk at Costco, either, and was frowning harder and harder in the ensuing pause.  
    "Right now," Ken finally added forcefully, taking a step forward. He put a hand suggestively on the holstered knife at his waist.   
    "Shawn, he has a very large knife. Very large," hissed Gus, squirming in his duct tape bonds.   
    "Thanks for pointing that out, buddy, I might have missed that detail," Shawn replied sarcastically, not taking his eyes off the knife while he strained in an attempt to free one hand. "Uh, let's talk about this --"  
    "Nope," came the reply. Ken was leaning over Shawn's chair now, uncomfortably close. He put a hand on Shawn's shoulder and flashed a bone-chillingly casual grin. "Truth. Now."   
     _Serial killers._ They'd broken into the hotel room of a gang of serial killers. _Did serial killers have gangs? Was a group of serial killers a murder, like crows, or was that too on the nose? A Lecter of serial killers?_ Shawn's thoughts were racing faster than his heart.  
    Things had definitely taken a left turn out of confusing and into dangerous, and Shawn knew he'd better get smart fast.   
    "Okay, okay! I'm psychic impresario Shawn Spencer, and this is my professional masseuse slash professor of game theory Candyland Tiddlywinks." ...Or he could say something like that.   
    The answer had started badly, and ended disastrously, as far as credibility was concerned. Serial Killer Ken did not approve.   
    "You think we're playing games?" he said menacingly, drawing the knife out slowly so it glinted in the firelight.  "If you're not going to tell the truth, we have to assume you've got something to hide. So we'll work our way down the list until we find out who or what you are."    
    "The less you fight, the easier it'll be," the moose man added from over his shoulder, somewhat apologetically.   
    Their third companion, the businessman type, was looking more and more uneasy; but probably not enough to intervene. Shawn could feel the situation veering out of control quickly, but whether it was the jetlag or the atmosphere in the room, he couldn't seem to grab hold of the brakes.   
    "The easier WHAT will be? What are you going to do?" squeaked Gus.   
    "Whatever we need to," Ken said, laying the cold flat of the knife against Shawn's neck. Shawn met his gaze, and what he saw there made the last of his bravado vanish. There was something in the unblinking green eyes that seemed to be a door to a very dark place. There was another blade there, just as real, and it took a fair bit of courage not to look away. He had the abrupt feeling his life might depend on it. He'd been around more than his share of killers, yet he'd never been quite so certain that someone could and would kill him without a moment's hesitation if he gave them a reason. There would be no game, no villain's rules of honor. He'd blink and be done.  
    "I told you the truth," Shawn said as levelly as he could manage. "I'm Shawn Spencer, I'm a psychic detective for the police. In California. He's my partner, Gus. We're harmless, I swear."    
    Ken doll peered at Shawn for a moment longer, his sharp eyes searching and skeptical. The edge didn't soften but it backed off. Then he turned his head ever so slightly towards the disheveled businessman, as though awaiting confirmation of the answer.   
    "He doesn't appear to be lying, Dean." The businessman's reply had a hint of concern. Maybe they really weren't all stone cold killers; but one was more than enough.    
    Ken doll - Dean - sniffed, then straightened up and sheathed his knife. As soon as he did, the murderous atmosphere lifted as quickly as it had borne down on the room. Shawn finally let out the breath that had been caught in his throat. Dean retreated to the table and leaned back, folding his arms; the moose seemed to take this as a cue that he'd tagged out and stepped forward.   
    "I'm Sam Winchester," he said, somewhat slowly and clearly as though he believed them to be a bit dim. "This is my brother Dean, and that's Castiel."   
    "Hello," disheveled businessman - Castiel - said flatly, without moving a muscle. He had been watching the entire scene like it was an especially engaging but unsettling nature documentary, and wasn't about to break focus for niceties. Shawn wondered if the gazelles had gotten away, or the lions were just letting them think they had.   
    "Just Castiel? What is he, like a Spanish electronic musician?" Shawn cracked a weak smile and a laugh, trying to regain his footing. He was pretty sure he'd misplaced the floor, however briefly.    
    "I'm an angel of the lord," the businessman corrected. He pulled himself up in a way that strangely put Shawn in mind of peevish bird fluffing up its feathers, to the point that he could've sworn it made a sound.   
    "Oh. Okay," Gus said in his best 'appease the nutbunnies' voice, which he'd had ample opportunity to perfect, before harshly whispering an aside to his friend. "Shawn, these people are nuts."   
    "Says the guy who was hiding in our closet?" Dean frowned at Gus and raised an eyebrow. Stage whispers still weren't working so well in reality.   
    "I told you, I'm a psychic. I was following a vibe," explained Shawn, as much as one could explain something by throwing lies at it.   
    "Psychic, huh? Yeah, sure." Wearily, Dean rubbed at his eyebrow. He still sounded utterly unconvinced.   
    "We work for the Santa Barbara Police Department," Gus answered quickly, trying to sound official. "We've consulted on over a hundred cases."   
    The tall brother snorted, and tried to wrangle back a smile. He failed. "What, rescuing kittens from trees?"   
    "You're a psychic, and I'm Gwyneth Paltrow," Dean smirked, shaking his head, and looked to his brother. "Are we seriously believing these clowns?"   
    "Are we talking Se7en, or Country Strong? Because if the plaid is any indication… I'm just saying, I'd rather not be Garrett Hedlund, if that's okay." Shawn was almost able to hide the remaining edge of nervousness in his voice underneath the fast tempo of the joke, but not quite.   
    "I think Garrett Hedlund would rather not be Garrett Hedlund," Gus followed up, buoyed a bit by Shawn's increasing courage. He was recovering faster than Shawn; but then, he hadn't had a knife to his throat.   
    "Dean, I don't understand anything they're saying," Castiel murmured to Dean, peering sideways at the two captives warily.   
    Shawn wanted to take any opportunity to steer this situation back in their favor. He still wasn't confident that they were out of the woods.   
    "My SBPD consultant ID!" he blurted out. "In my pocket. Look in my pocket. It's in there."   
    Dean furrowed his brow and gave him the once-over, then lifted both hands in a gesture of disgust. "I'm not sticking my hand in your pants, buddy."   
    Shawn rolled his eyes, and tried to gesture to his breast pocket with his head. "My jacket pocket! The left one."   
    "You told Chief Vick your ID badge was stolen by a chimp," Gus reprimanded him, unhelpfully.   
    "That was just so I could get a new one with a better picture. I look like K.D. Lang in that one. Possibly because I was dressed as K.D. Lang at the time," Shawn added defensively.   
    Moose boy sighed deeply, like a weary parent who was ready to give in and let the kids have ice cream for dinner. Somewhat cautiously, he came close enough to gingerly reach into Shawn's jacket.   
    "…is there… a half-eaten Sugar Daddy?" he asked, not wanting to really know the answer. Sam curled his lip in disgust at the sticky substance on his fingers.   
    "I was saving it for later. Behind that. It's in there," Shawn insisted.   
    "Ah…Dean…What's a sugar daddy?" Castiel leaned into Dean again, inquisitive.   
    "Not now, Cas," groaned Dean, putting his hand over his eyes.   
    Sure enough, there it was; a laminated clip badge. Sam pointedly wiped his hand on Shawn's jacket before straightening up to examine it.   
    "SBPD independent consultant. Huh." He flashed the card to Dean. Then they had what appeared to be an entire conversation consisting of nothing but small expressions combined with the twitch of a shoulder, which Shawn couldn't translate. Whatever had not been said, they came to a silent agreement.  
    "Seems to me you two are way out of your jurisdiction here," said Dean,  "So, what…you're some kind of paranormal tourists? Shake things up, see what spooks pop out?"  
    Dean tried miming said spooks popping out, using his hand as a puppet and reacting in fake terror. Everyone else stared at him until he cleared his throat and looked somewhat embarrassed. Maybe the whole 'I'll cut you' thing had been an act…?  
    "…Spooks?" Shawn chuckled. Who says 'spooks'?   
    "You seriously don't know? It's one of the most haunted places in the world," Sam continued grimly - and more effectively - where his brother left off. He had a good handle on creepy announcer voice.   
    If if was their plan to get Gus riled up, it worked. His eyes went wide and he immediately began squirming and emitting a soft, high-pitched whine.   
    "What? WHAT. Shawn, you did NOT tell me this place is HAUNTED," he angrily accused his friend.   
    "What? Man, I didn't know! It's not like they put it on the website," Shawn rebutted.    
    "Of course they do! People go to creepy old castles because they think they're haunted!" Gus' voice was rising with his panic.   
    "No, that's just the places with faulty wiring and some old legend. I'm talking about REAL hauntings. Places like this, old places, they've got history. Long, bloody history." Encouraged by Gus' increasing distress, Sam had worked his way up into slasher movie territory. "You're seriously telling me you can't sense it?"  
    "Sense what? Sense WHAT, Shawn. If the walls start bleeding I am going to stab you myself," fumed Gus, making his best effort to hit Shawn somehow with his shoulder and only succeeding in knocking their heads together.   
    "The profound sense of impending doom." Sam was on a roll now, and had graduated to a better class of horror film.   
    "The ominous chill," agreed Dean, jumping back in with a pretend shiver that was only slightly too melodramatic.   
    "No. NOPE." Gus was vigorously shaking his head as if denying it hard enough would have an effect.    
    "Oh, come on." Shawn was having none of it. After all, every time they'd gotten worked up over something supernatural they'd just been Scooby Doo'd. "You really think you're going to scare us off that easily? We're professionals."  
    "Oh god, look over there!" Dean cried sudenly, recoiling cartoonishly and pointing a finger behind them.   
    "What! Where!" Shawn sputtered in spite of himself, frantically turning his head left and right, trying to see.   
    Gus let out a shrill shriek and flailed so hard in his bonds that he tipped the (admittedly rather flimsy) chair over backwards. He hit the floor hard, with a grunt. Sam finally lost it and let out one sharp giggle before he covered his mouth with his hand and regained his composure.   
    "Gus! You okay, man?" Shawn peeked over his shoulder as well as he could to make sure he was all right. The soft whimpering noises meant he was. Mostly.   
    Shawn glared at Sam and Dean, hard enough that there was almost a crack of remorse. "Little help here?"   
    "Professionals. Right." Dean's tone was dripping sarcasm all over the floor. He seemed to have gotten what he wanted out of the exchange, and turned his back on them. "Congratulations on passing the dumbass test. Cut 'em loose, Sam; they're only a danger to themselves."  
    Sam easily picked up Gus and the chair as one unit and set them back on their feet. He gave the other man a consoling but slightly hesitant pat on the back, apparently feeling a little guilty.   
    Shawn, on the other hand, wasn't ready to let it go with aplomb. They'd insulted his honor, and he was a MacLeod. Well, he was a Spencer, but HONOR.   
    "I am plenty dangerous," he asserted huffily. "I'm on a first-name basis with danger."   
    "Shut UP, Shawn," Gus growled harshly, taking his embarrassment out on the person who'd gotten him into it in the first place.   
    In the language of Shawn's people, 'stop' meant 'go', so he just lowered his head to make his eyebrows more dramatic and carried on. "Danger parties at my house and brings salsa dip."  
    "Sure," Sam said, uncommitted about whether to be quizzical or patronizing at this point. Still, he grabbed the pen-knife from the table and made quick, precise work of cutting them free from their bonds. "What are you even doing here, anyway?"  
    Shawn stood up, but Sam hadn't quite finished freeing his arms and a wad of duct tape wound up stuck to his arm. He tried to shake it off, but this tactic failed and didn't help him any in his attempt at a serious demeanor.   
    "WE… were invited," he said anyway, his chin in the air proudly. Without thinking he yanked the duct tape off in a sharp motion. Everyone winced in involuntary sympathy at his silent scream of pain when it took a swatch of arm hair with it.   
    "Wait… you two clowns got the invitation?" Dean replied, narrowing his eyes skeptically. "Hand it over."   
    "We'll show you ours if you show us yours." There was the briefest pause before Gus rushed headlong back into the breach of the awkward silence he'd just created. "Uh…Invitations, I mean. Invitations."   
    With a proud flourish, Gus produced their black envelope from inside his blazer. He pulled it back when Sam reached for it the first time, before somewhat begrudgingly letting him have it.   
    "Bruton…Gaster? Seriously?" Sam was caught between containing another laugh at Gus' expense, and genuine sympathy.   
    "BURTON. GUSTER." Gus corrected him angrily, hitting each syllable with his hand like karate chop.    
    After some consideration, Sam turned to Dean and nodded. "Looks legit. Same as ours."  
    "Okay, so you're a 'psychic investigator'," acknowledged Dean, but not so enthusiastically as to omit the air quotes. He "You a psychic, too?"   
    "No, I'm a pharmaceutical salesman."  
    "Uh-huh. That explains the sweater vest."  
    "There was no dress code specified!" Gus visibly bristled, and tugged his blazer down to smooth it out. He wasn't going to take this from guys who came to a multi-course meal at a castle in flannel. "Dress casual is the default."  
    Dean ignored him, and poked a finger at Shawn. "If you're so psychic, what am I thinking right now?"  
    "That I'm not actually psychic and that you could kick my ass," sighed Shawn. "But it doesn't work that way. I don't read minds."   
    "Hah." Sam smirked at Dean's annoyed grumble. "Okay, what DO you do, then? Write cookie fortunes?"  
    "No, I… get vibes. I sense things about places, and people. And sometimes animals," Shawn added.    
    If Dean had rolled his eyes any harder, they'd have gone into orbit. He stood up from the table grumpily and stood in front of them with his arms crossed imposingly to indicate he was done with them.   
    "You, my friend, are a con. Shirley McClaine has more legit mojo than you. So, look. Go home. Go back to California and surf or whatever you do out there. This is no place for you, or your friend --" Dean poked a finger in Gus' direction "-- and I don't want to be responsible for keeping you safe. From yourselves."  
    Gus could just about see the steam starting to build up in Shawn, his jaw clenching. It wasn't like it was the first time they'd heard something along those lines, but hearing it from a certain dapper silver fox was one thing; from a total stranger who'd recently assaulted them and even more recently made fun of them, it was completely different. These guys clearly weren't law enforcement of any kind, not dressed how they were, and had no more legitimate claim to being there than Shawn and Gus did. Suddenly he was mad as hell and he wasn't going to take it. He narrowed his eyes.   
     "Just because you have a knife and a modeling contract with the Sears catalog --" Shawn began to protest.   
    Gus grabbed Shawn's arm, trying to pull him away and derail this mine cart barreling towards doom. It was already too late. "Shawn, shut up, let's just go."   
    "No, I'm not going to get pushed around by this guy. This isn't 6th grade and we're not in the girls' toilet. I don't know why YOU'RE here, but we're here because someone is going to die. And either I'm going to prevent it, or I'm going to bring the killer to justice. I'm not going to give up because some 90s Pearl Jam cover band tells me to."  
    Shawn drew himself up and stood tall in front of Dean. He was still several inches shorter, but for just the briefest moment he seemed the bigger man. Even if it was just due to Dean's bafflement, like a bear startled by a feisty cat, Shawn Spencer briefly seemed like a man who was not to be trifled with.   
    After a moment that felt like forever and much to Shawn's surprise (since he was not at all sure what he expected when he went down that road), Dean suddenly laughed quite amiably. That was a significant turnaround from threatening to slice jugulars. Shawn figured he'd better take it as a victory, but he still shied away slightly when Dean clapped a hand on his shoulder.   
    "Sorry about tying you up," he said seriously. Shawn wasn't clear on whether it was mock seriousness or not.   
    "Uh…sorry about hiding in your closet. I mean breaking into your room. I mean, not that we BROKE in…" Partway through Shawn lost track of where his apology was headed, mainly because he wasn't sure he should even be apologizing.   
    Dean shrugged. "Let's just chalk it up to mistaken identity."   
    "But I mean, c'mon, this castle's not really haunted. Right? You're such jokers, you guys, aren't you," Gus blurted out, clearly not believing it but really wanting reassurance if no one was about to be stabbed.    
    "Right. Cas here is the funniest angel in the garrison," Dean chuckled, then cleared his throat abruptly when Sam shot him a slightly horrified look. "Of our LARP. We're LARPers. LARPing."   
    "Ohh," Gus said, breaking into a relieved smile. "So that's why you were talking about monsters and ghosts and demons! I bet those guns aren't even real, huh?"   
     "Uh…yeah. Exactly," Sam agreed, nodding a little too aggressively, and adding in an awkward chuckle as an overly delayed afterthought. "Rubber."   
    Shawn wanted to believe it too, but the gun aside, he knew that fake knives weren't cold as steel. The memory of it weighed down on his adrenaline-fueled high, and brought him crashing back to earth where they had quite literally stood on a knife's edge not ten minutes prior. Whether these guys were no longer actively their enemies or not, he didn't know; but there was something really off about them that was gnawing at every instinct he had. Shawn was an extremely experienced liar, and he was seeing signs that they were even more experienced (if not necessarily better). That was a frightening thought.   
    They'd been in some idiot situations before, but never so far from backup. He was sure they shouldn't go off their guard, and seeing Gus starting to do just that made him swing rather suddenly from back fight to flight. He started gauging the distance to the door out of the corner of his eye. Without thinking about it, he put himself between Dean and Gus.   
    "Moondor. We're close personal friends of the queen," Dean bragged proudly, still merrily on the LARPer track, either not seeing or ignoring Shawn's wariness.   
    "Look, guys, not that it hasn't been…um…fun," Shawn began, uncertainly. Whatever secrets they were keeping - badly - he was starting to think he didn't actually want to know. That was a new one for him; not being curious. But he sensed, somehow, that he was better off not knowing. He found himself cautiously inching towards the door, forcing Gus to back up behind him. "But unless you want to interrogate us some more, I think we'll be going now?"   
    Dean had noticed now, but only acknowledged with the tiniest of frowns. Then he seemed to dismiss it, and looked amused again. "Just stay out of our way and try not to get eaten by any monsters."  
    "What?" Gus said, confused and remembering faintly that he'd been shaken.   
    "What?" Dean repeated back, as if he didn't know what he'd said. He stumbled into a cover a little too swiftly to be believable. "Uh, you know, LARP monsters. They're…foam."   
    Only a few more steps to the door; a few more steps away.   
    "Wait. I have a question." Castiel the disheveled business man stepped right up, seemingly from nowhere, and popped Shawn's personal bubble. Their faces were almost nose to nose, divided by little more than the businessman's intense squint. Shawn could feel all the hairs on his neck stand up, though he couldn't explain why the only one of them who didn't seem scary had that effect.   
    After an uncomfortably long silence, Castiel (not an electronic musician) tilted his head and carefully enunciated:  "…How do you get your hair to go like that?"  
    There really was just no accounting for these people. Shawn was now thinking the balance was pretty well stacked in favor of Gus' 'these people are nuts' theory. Centimeter by centimeter, he continued the creep towards the door, while Castiel stared intently, nonplussed. For an accountant, he almost made Shawn more uncomfortable than the heavily armed murder twins (fraternal, clearly).   
    "Tell you what, buddy," Shawn replied, with a practiced smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'll teach you all my secrets. Just don't Vulcan neck pinch us again!"  
    The last part was flung into the room as Gus and Shawn darted out the door to what, at the time, was a promise of safety.   
  
    In hindsight, Shawn wasn't sure that he'd made the right call on either his request, or his definition of safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really struggled with this chapter; did a lot of rewrites. In a scene with five people whose comedy is based so much on facial expression, it makes writing them difficult. And maybe it was something to do with the baffling dance when you put more than one highly practiced liar in a room. Shawn, Sam and Dean aren't sociopaths; they lie because they need to in order to do good, not because they can't recognize the truth. That is, oddly, more complicated; and it means they are quite frequently kind of bad at it. Shawn tells the truth from the beginning because his truth is already a lie, btw. ;) 
> 
> And I'm not sorry about the Stargate reference. I love that gag way too much to be sorry.


	11. Liber a vel Follis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel and Moriarty get better acquainted through proper table settings.

**Dunwadie Castle (the bowels of)**

As usual, it was Gabriel's sweet tooth that had gotten him in trouble. It was a nasty habit he'd picked up ages ago - pretending to be someone else - that he hadn't been able to kick since. He liked to think of it as a blood sugar thing; but the truth was it was precisely because he didn't have a good reason that he couldn't give it up. In Heaven, things were all about engrained purpose. Cogs in the machine created by an omnipotent Father. Duty, rules and hosannas were what made up the perfect music of the spheres. God in His Heaven, and everything in its right place! But God had left Heaven. And nothing had been right since. Gabriel didn't have the skill of pretending differently that the other angels so excelled at. So he'd left them to their own devices, and carved out his own little heaven on Earth.  
    Ever since, he'd taken solace in his little sugar-coated rebellion. An angel who didn't even need to eat food to live, eating food that was the daily recommended intake of absolutely nothing. The epitome of uselessness. A fish with a snorkel. He liked the taste of that, the sweetness of the unnecessary. He knew he'd never be able to explain to any of his brethren how precious a thing could become precisely because it had no need to exist. They would never understand him just as they couldn't understand the humans; and they'd never understand cake. It was all transience and entropy from their stance, no difference between a walking bag of water and sin bound in skin and bone, or luscious, soft piles of air and calories topped with a cherry.  
    Oh well, all the more cake for him.  
    Or there would be, if he wasn't currently pinned like a fly in treacle in this crazy mortal's contraption. He hadn't gotten a good look at it when some crony put him in it, still dazed from his rough journey; only an impression of strange intersecting metal crosspieces. They'd chained him to something like a large X and closed more bars in front of him. He could still have escaped and been on the other side of the world in the blink of an eye, except the whole room was covered in Enochian wards. He couldn't see them, but he could feel them there; walls, ceiling, and floor humming with old magic. There was no way out. He could've at least wreaked some havoc in the immediate vicinity, except the manacles they'd slapped on him were inscribed too. Even the weaker spell on the cuffs kept him from snapping his fingers and spattering the little weasel's organs all over the walls well enough.  
    At the moment, said weasel was seriously invading his personal space. Moriarty. He'd taken the time for introductions. Seemed to be a real weirdo. He'd been staring at him with his big bug eyes from only a few inches away, wordlessly, for what felt like an eternity. It was creepy.  
    "Look, bro, if this is a gay thing you should just ask nicely," Gabriel finally said, flippantly, just to break the silence. "Pop me down from here and--"  
    Moriarty raised a finger to his lips and somehow it was enough to end the sentence. He regarded his captive with a slow twitch of amusement at the corner of his thin mouth and a slight raise of one eyebrow, then went over to a heavy wooden desk nearby and began methodically and calmly preparing a cup of tea. Trust a Brit to equip a prison for an archangel with a gold-rimmed bone china tea set.  
    Even though he knew it was pointless, Gabriel took the moment that Moriarty had his back turned to struggle against his bonds. Angels were strong, but he wasn't the Hulk, and spells aside, the manacles were a solid inch of steel.    
    Dammit, this was really idiotic. It wasn't enough that he'd gotten himself Shanghai'ed by that doucherocket Crowley and his goons; he was the pet science project of some random human in a suit so tight he must sing soprano. Now he was snug as a bug in a roach motel, his powers useless (to him), and the icing on the cake (pun bitterly intended): the guy was a terrible conversationalist. All of it, for a CUPCAKE.  
    Crowley was a quick bastard, he'd give him that; there were only so many demons even Gabriel could fight off single-handed and surprised, and he'd thrown them out all at once. None of that one at a time business that had seemed to be the villainy code. The angel-proof handcuffs were certainly the hot new thing in fashion, too. He'd been bound and on the floor in an instant. At least he'd been unconscious for most of the indignity of being trussed up in a sack like a Christmas turkey. Asshole.  
    Once he was free of the bag, he'd barely had time to process where he was before he was strapped into the - machine, he supposed, though he didn't know what it did or how. He'd caught a glimpse of Moriarty activating it with a sort of crystal, and then there were strange images forcing themselves into his mind. People, and an overwhelmingly powerful instruction to find them and bring them there. It wasn't that the sensation was painful; it was like having the fragments of his own thoughts put through a meat grinder. He'd had to obey the commands just to get away from it, and even that had been unbearable.  
    For an angel, traveling through space was easy. Flight wasn't quite the right concept. It was more like changing channels on a TV; or maybe more like reading. Going from a noodle shop in Shengdu to a bodega in Brazil was like skimming across words on a page. All of them were there, plain and easy as if they were the contents of a book: every place, every building, every human and their prayers. Finding a specific one took concentration, of course, but if hard pressed they could speed read through the entirety of the present without much effort. The past and the future, on the other hand, weren't just different pages; they were other books, and the further away in time they were, the higher the shelf. It was dangerous and exhausting to target one sentence in a book four aisles away only reached from atop a rickety, eight foot ladder. It was sort of like throwing a dart and hoping to hit one particular word in the encyclopedia from across town. They avoided it. It ended badly if they missed.  
    But the people he'd been commanded to find… that was unlike anything he'd experienced. It was like throwing a dart and hitting one word in an encyclopedia from space. The volumes of the universe that contained these people weren't just in a dusty, neglected corner, accidentally shelved under gardening. As he searched, stretching himself further and further, he got the impression they were in a whole other library. It was a long-forgotten one, buried under the rubble of ages. The specific metaphysical torment that it was to find and grasp those particular people from so far away (how could they be so far away?) was almost undefinable. In the noodle shop he frequented, he would watch the cook take a ball of dough and stretch and pull and cut it into lengths, swift and sharp with a clack of blade on wood. He felt like noodles. He'd nearly lost hold of Castiel, who had struggled in his grasp, and the redhead and the professor in their strange box seemed to be fighting back too. When it was finally done, he had blacked out; he had no idea for how long.  
    And now here he was, feeling exhausted and very much at a disadvantage, and the bastard who had one of the most powerful beings in the universe on a leash had stopped to pour himself a cup of tea. So while Gabriel wasn't sure what this creepazoid was going to ask him to do, he was incredibly disinclined to do it. If he could just figure out what his captor's deal was, he could use it against him. Somehow. After all, who was this Moriarty? Another sad little ant with delusions of grandeur. Humans were greedy little things; they were always hungry, always ready to buy. He just had to find the right sales pitch.  
    Moriarty had finished preparing his cup of tea and turned back to face his captive. There was an expensive-sounding clink as he placed his spoon on the saucer. He perched delicately on the edge of his desk and took a languorous sip. The scene was incongruous to the point of hilarity, but there it was. An archangel crucified in modern art, trapped in a box of invisible spells with at a lunatic's tea party.  
    Gabriel pulled his bravado up by its bootstraps, and took on the unsettling quiet. "So, uh…this contraption. I've gotta admit, it's a new one on me. And that's saying something. Pretty cool, too. Lets me use my power but limits what I can do. Nifty. If you let me down, though, we could have some SERIOUS fun. I'm a fun guy, everybody says so!"  
    His captor paused mid-sip, regarding him unblinkingly, then sucked up a bit of tea with a soft slurp. Ritualistically, he carefully returned the cup to its saucer.  
    "You're not at all what I expected. An angel. Who'd want to be on your side?" Moriarty looked back up at Gabriel, inclining his head the tiniest iota. His tone had a strange sing-song nature to it. Gabriel hoped he wasn't going to break into song, but a deep sense of unease blossoming in his mind told him a spontaneous musical likely wasn't the worst-case scenario. Not by a long shot.  
    But it was true; for an archangel, he didn't look like much, hanging there awkwardly and nearly spread-eagled in the tangle of crossbars. His shirt and jacket were dirty and a bit damp, and the knees of his jeans were smeared with mud where he'd hit the ground during his capture. Between the rumpled and grubby appearance, the floppy hair, and soft features outlined by a lazy stream of dried blood down his cheek, the vibe was more 'kicked puppy' than 'ineffable force of nature'.  
    He knew it, and tried on a cocky scowl to counterbalance. It sat a bit uncomfortably; what was it about this guy...  
    "You know that royal douchebag you're working with traded his immortal soul for a bigger dick, right?" So the story went, anyway. "Not really top shelf villainy."  
    "And his plan to trap you involved baked goods. Not one to be throwing stones, are we?" Moriarty's smile was all icicles and knives. Mirth on him hung plastic and grim like makeup on a corpse. _If he was going to be kidnapped by a psycho, why couldn't it have been a fun one?_  
    "They were red velvet with chocolate buttercream," Gabriel snapped defensively, in spite of himself. But he wasn't about to give up on trying to talk his way out of it. Parlor tricks could confuse mortals just fine, but no illusion was effective without a good salesman.  
    He managed to recover his slightly slipped snark almost immediately. "What did that asshat Crowley get for delivering me, anyway? Just so I know what to put as the buy-it-now on my next eBay listing."  
    "Sam and Dean Winchester." Moriarty said the names lightly, as though they were a punchline to a private joke.  
    "The Winchesters?! You have got to be joking. Those two morons are fair trade for a freaking ARCHANGEL? Oh man, just slap a clearance tag on my forehead and dump me in the bargain bin. It's just _embarrassing_ ," he moaned ruefully.  
     "Not a fan, I take it?" the other man responded, sparing a sneer before taking another effeminate sip of tea.  
    "I'm front of the line for teaching the Wonder Twins a lesson. But why bother having me zap all these randoms here? Crowley say you could take the boys for a torture test drive or something, and you wanted a warm-up?" Gabriel watched intently for any sign of a hit but he was getting no reaction. He kept hammering, trying to make his increasing anxiety sound like earnestness. "You've got an angel on the payroll, buddy. You could've had them in your pocket right now, instead of having me mess around with public transportation."  
    This was a lie, but he didn't have anything approaching a handle on this Moriarty guy and wasn't certain if it was an obvious one.  
    The villain of the piece considered for a moment, crossing his legs with a whisper of silk. Then, quietly and with an academic detachment, he answered. "The illusion of free will makes the realization of the inevitable that much more painful, don't you think?"  
    Heaven spare him, a psychopathic philosopher.  
    "What exactly is this inevitable, then?" Gabriel had to keep casting until he got a nibble. _Like blood from a stone._ "You want to torment the Winchesters? Hey, who doesn't? It'll be so much better without the kinky torture angle. For me, I mean. But for them too. Too obvious. They're used to it, the masochists. You have to get creative. A fantastic game."  
    Abruptly, a spark jumped deep in the studied apathetic gaze. Moriarty's focus latched on a with a quick, predatory twitch of the head.  
    "A game. Yes, a game,"  he murmured half to himself, wrapping his tongue around the word hungrily.  
    Ah. There it was. That had hit a button. _A game._ Great; Gabriel was fantastic at games. Well, even more fantastic than he was at everything else.  
    "So what's your poison?" Gabriel purred cheerily. "You must have a plan, right? That's what us naughty boys do. Come on, I get stuck with the world's only non-chatty supervillain? Give me a hint, man. What's the final move?"  
    He'd been hoping to land a nice fat soliloquy, but no such luck. Dammit. He'd just gotten a hook in, and now he was losing the guy again. Moriarty's gaze had slipped off like water again, and he was staring at a shadowed corner of the room for no clear reason.  
    Gabriel started when Moriarty swiftly sprang to his feet, turned away and aggressively slammed his hands down on the desk. The china teacup skittered sideways. It stopped teetering precipitously near the edge. Keeping his back hunched and tense, he reached out a hand and used the tiniest of motions to push it back to safety. The hand was trembling.  
    Gabriel frowned to himself. _Definitely more than a few spoons short of a service then. Great._  
    "The body you're in. You're just IN it, aren't you?" Moriarty didn't raise his head or turn from where he was bowed over the desk.  
    "Wh…what?" Gabriel watched, increasingly uneasy, as Moriarty instantaneously regained his previous calm demeanor, straightening and casually warming up his smile.  
    "It's a conduit of sorts, yes? A power adapter." Moriarty slid over to Gabriel and trailed a finger across his shirt. "You plug your angel self into it to walk and talk like a real boy."  
    At this point, the angel wasn't sure it was worth trying to hide his confusion and dismay. He tried to pull back, but there was nowhere to go. "Look, at this stage in our relationship, I'd rather not--"  
    Moriarty struck without any warning, fast as a viper and just as sharp. Gabriel barely saw the glint of the small knife before it was already buried in his left thigh, sending a bright spark of pain ricocheting across his vessel's nerves. He was a bit embarrassed that he cried out; more in surprise than anything else. It wasn't like he hadn't been stabbed before, but it always did hurt like the dickens.    
    "So you do feel that body's pain. Delightful! Tell me…do you die just like all the other worms?" The words curled languidly from his mouth like poison smoke, and the fracturing of Gabriel's expression, from surprise and pain into trepidation with a dash of panic, pleased him immensely.  
    Wow, he'd really hit the psychopath jackpot. At least Crowley hadn't given him the full Angel 101. That was something. But he was starting to realize he was really in it this time. Down deep in a dark place. Gabriel thought of all the angel voices and all the prayers that normally swept like a soft breeze through his head, now fallen still and silent in his cage, and wondered whom he was to direct his prayers to.    
    "We ARE going to play a game, my dear angel. My rules. My game. My pawn," Moriarty crooned ardently, clasping his fingers around Gabriel's fist, still clenched in pain and anger. "'Thou shalt have no other gods before me…'"  
    The giggle that followed was blood-curdling. Gabriel could feel another command forcing its way into his consciousness, twisting and keen as the knife had been. In the little quiet that remained in his thoughts as another will drowned them out, some distant memory sang to Gabriel: _'Hell doesn't want you, and Heaven is full…'_  
  
    From somewhere deep in the earth below him, Gabriel faintly registered a tiny sound, one that would be inaudible to anyone but an angel. At the moment he didn't have the brainwaves to spare for wondering what it was, much less explain how it made him think of a gun being cocked. But it sent a shiver up his spine.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been reading "live", sorry about the wait. Life. Also, while this is a short chapter, it's an important one. 
> 
> Moriarty is a stone-cold psychopathic m-fer. Even an angel would be pretty "WTF" about him; he makes Lucifer seem pretty even-tempered, snuggly cuddle-bear. He is not easy to write. But some of the reasons for how I've chosen to write him - if it doesn't seem quite like "Sherlock" canon - will become clear later. 
> 
> If you happen to be very concerned why there was a knife with his tea set, and think that even if he had any jam the blade would be far too dull, it is in fact a letter opener. He takes it from the desk when Gabriel is distracted by the precarious teacup. No one's very concerned about the original purpose of a blade when it's in their leg. 
> 
> If you are a diehard SPN fan, technical notes for you: jumping to conclusions about some unclear mythology, like how the angel wards function. Placing them on exterior walls keeps angels out, so with the right phrasing should - theoretically - be able to keep them in. (Canon says only holy fire, but even the writers get creative when they're in a corner and Crowley's gotta know some tricks.) Since they also shield human occupants from exterior heavenly surveillance, they should cut any contained angel off from "angel radio". Gabriel should be unable to reach out to any other angels, to hear their thoughts, or hear mortal prayers - which would likely have been constant background noise even though he was not an active participant in heavenly matters. (Castiel does comment that it's possible to "manually disconnect" from this feed, but in his isolation, I suspect Gabriel might have been comforted by it; like sleeping with the TV on.) There is also a reason why Gabriel CAN use his powers to affect things OUTSIDE the room he's in. Shush. Don't fret.


	12. The Eagle and Wolf Intermezzi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleepiness strains friendships, Sherlock states the obvious but doesn't see it, and John is saved by a Scots(wo)man.

Almost from the very beginning, Sherlock had readily learned to see John as an extension of himself. A slightly dull-witted part of himself, admittedly. It was the awkwardness of his fingers on the strings when he was first learning the violin. He knew the music and his mind could follow its every leap flawlessly, but the sound was less obedient; the only thing to be blamed was the laziness of his hand. It took training up. Yes, John was like that. But once the training was done, he’d become accustomed to how an army doctor fit in the melody of his mind, and no more expected dereliction of duties from John than he expected his hand to wander off in the middle of a sonata and leave him with nothing but a stump.  
    At the moment, however, they were not on the same page of the sheet music. Sherlock had been lobbing observations left and right as a proper mad composer should, and his attention had only turned to his audience when there was a loud snuffling snore.   
    "John! Are you listening?" cried Sherlock petulantly. He made no attempt to hide his displeasure when John jerked upright, his gaze sliding blearily back to attention.   
    "What?" he mumbled, looking around him in some confusion. John cleared his throat, removed the half-crushed cushion he'd been leaning on from under his arm, and made a feeble attempt to fluff it. When it came to a weary traveler, there was no villain more devilish than a comfortable armchair. "I'm LISTENING, Sherlock."   
    John was consistently truculent when woken from sleep. Phones and alarm clocks alike had been on the receiving end of his staunch refusal to accept their statement of facts; as had Sherlock when cases came at odd hours (which they frequently did) and he burst into the bedroom to rouse his companion. On those occasions, John generally employed a natural defense mechanism of rolling himself into a tiny ball, a measure against any attempt at forcible removal of the covers. It was quite effective; at first. But Sherlock was nothing if not inventive. However John had eventually made the counter-point that he slept with a gun under his pillow; and if there was ever a repeat of the liquid nitrogen incident, he was prepared to use it. So for the most part a stalemate had been reached.   
    Certainly John couldn't have expected to get away with nodding off in the middle of a case, though; or at the very least, when Sherlock was in the middle of being especially brilliant.   
    "You were drooling," Sherlock pointed out. He never ceased to be amazed when John tried to claim that he had not, in fact, been asleep in the first place.   
    "I was no--oh. Sorry." John pulled the sleeve of his jumper roughly across his chin, looking a little embarrassed.   
    "As I was saying - what do the contents of the gift basket tell you about our host?” Sherlock raised a petulant eyebrow.   
    John looked over at the attractively prepared wicker basket sitting on the table of their guest room, but the familiar angle of the creases bracketing his brows plainly stated he did not know what he was supposed to see there. All he could see were the little packets of assorted biscuits, the tea, the tiny box of slides and the tidy, precise ribbon on the handle. The faint downturn on the left side of the mouth said that the specific insult of the cigarettes didn't escape him, however.   
    "That they're…quite thoughtful, really? A cup of tea doesn't quite balance out murderous intent, but then again, it IS very good tea…" The frown held on, but John's attention was already waning. Even Sherlock could almost see the visions of caffeinated beverages dancing in front of his companion. But this was no time for lassitude.   
    "No, no, John, look! It's the exact brands," Sherlock exclaimed, brandishing a biscuit tin. "The tea, the biscuits, though the microscope is somewhat sub-par --"  
    "I'm surprised you even KNOW what brands, since you never do any of the shopping." John glared judgmentally. No missed opportunity for a barb, then. "Obviously they had someone follow me round to the shops. Not the first time I've been followed."  
    "Yes, we really must work on your evasion skills…" Sherlock took up a perch on the back of the small sofa, carefully flipping his suit coat out from under himself but ignoring John's disapproval when he put his shoes on the cushions. Mental note: set that former North Korean spy on John's tail when they returned to London. He laid the long fingers of his hands together beneath his chin. _Stipulate deadly force is NOT authorized._   
    John let out one bitter laugh and rolled his eyes. "Since you're always getting into it with a gang of Indonesian assassins, or a cadre of Peruvian mercenaries --"   
    "Peruvians? No, we haven't had any Peruvians." Sherlock stopped his careful examination of the biscuit tin he'd picked up from the table - checking for tampering, naturally - and paused for the briefest millisecond, a series of queries flashing rapid-fire across his countenance in the form of twitches and frowns. _Llama assassins? Cuidado, las llamas…_ Oh yes, surely, the cocoa from Caracas. " _Venezuelans_ , I think you mean."   
    His companion put his hand to his head and gave a sigh that was halfway to a growl, then abruptly stood and snatched the biscuit tin out of Sherlock's hand. "At any rate, it's hardly a surprise that someone knows all our private business, since the very fact that we're here at all is proof that someone has a vested interest in you! Now can we please stop talking about biscuits and worry about the family in danger?!"   
    So that was what he was suddenly so worked up over. Sherlock smirked knowingly and elegantly leapt back up to inspect the tea, swinging his long limbs over the back of the sofa. John took to angrily brushing off and restoring the flattened cushions as soon as they were vacated.    
    "Oh, the family's not real," Sherlock tossed off casually. "Well, they are, but they don't live here, or not now. Photograph was probably taken in the 1980s. Perhaps they were the original family, perhaps they were just on vacation. But they're in no danger - not from anyone here."  
    What?!" John looked up sharply, his hands clenching and squeezing the life out of the selfsame cushion he'd just resuscitated. "How do you know? How LONG have you known?"   
    The detective didn't look up from the pattern of foxing on the corners of the tea box. "Clothing in the photograph, rather out of date. Could've been an affectation, I suppose; all sorts of terrifying fashion coming back into 'style'. But that's irrelevant; if a bright-faced young family was living here, do you think they'd leave that walking corpse of an old man to run it?"  
    John opened his mouth to say something else, then visibly forced it down and took a more tactful course for the moment. "If you knew it was a lie, why did we come? And, we've talked about this: please don't refer to the elderly as walking corpses."  
    "Because I want to know who lied, and why. Hmm." Sherlock tossed the tea aside, picked up the basket, and dumped its contents across the table and floor to look at the weaving on the bottom, running the tips of his fingers across it as though it were braille.   
    "Dammit, Sherlock. You have got to start telling me these things," an increasingly aggravated John groaned.   
    Sherlock finally turned to John, with a confused expression knitting the brows together over his long nose. "Why? I thought surely you'd have figured out that much on your own. It's quite obvious,” he added with a strong, rising undercurrent of querulousness.   
    At last, John had reached the last straw. It was the straw that rendered any previous straws, no matter how numerous, completely irrelevant. He was well and truly out of straws.   
    "No it isn't!" he fumed, hot pink color rising in his cheeks and hands clenching at his sides. "Nothing about this is remotely obvious! It never is! And now we're on a lovely weekend at a psychopath's manor home--"   
    "Castle. It is a proper castle." Sherlock held up a finger with the correction, like a schoolmaster correcting a slow pupil.   
     "I don't CARE, Sherlock! I haven't slept in three days and all I want is to be left alone to have some peace and quiet! Just for a few moments, even! And STOP treading on the bloody furniture!"  
    Sherlock's foot stopped, hovering mere centimeters from the seat of a chair. He waited until the twitching muscles in John's jaw relaxed slightly, indicating he was under the impression he'd gotten his point across. Then the detective's face flashed a manic grin like lightning.   
    "There it is," he said in a self-satisfied murmur.   
    John's anger became muddled with confusion. “…What?"  
    "That's the John Watson we need!" Sherlock crowed, hurdling the couch in one easy motion to slap his companion sharply on the shoulder. "Cobwebs shook out, on your toes!"  
    John could do nothing for a moment but gape slightly at the sudden atmospheric change, though his own pressure system did not dissipate; only hesitate.   
    "Don't mistake this, John; there's a great deal at stake, even though it's not what we - well, you - expected. Most importantly, the danger - ah, the danger is very real --" He carried on, now pacing in quick, intense circles until one turn brought him to face his friend picking up his coat. Then he halted abruptly. "John. John, where are you going?"  
    John didn’t turn round to face Sherlock until he had his coat on, every movement deliberate in its resolve. When he did, his expression was a carefully calculated type of blank.   
    "I've had enough, Sherlock. This --" -- John gestured pointedly to himself with open palms, sliding from his head down towards his feet to encompass the entire package of his disaffection --  "--is me having had more than enough."   
    "But --"  
    "I am going…for a walk." John dropped the words like lead. Then he straightened himself up with military aplomb, pulling in a breath to puff his chest out ever so slightly. He turned sharply on his heel and marched out the door; leaving the detective in his wake to stand open-mouthed but speechless in the mess he had made, alone and baffled.   
    It was a highly sensible solution to an absurd situation. In his heart, John knew it was doomed to failure.    
  
    The squeaks and creaks of the ancient, uneven floors and the dull thump of threadbare carpet didn't make for quality storming, but John Watson bunched up his shoulders and gave it a go anyway. Still, he found that he couldn't quite walk briskly enough to pull away from the angry thoughts circling around his head like a flock of cawing birds. All the daily annoyances of life with Sherlock Holmes were suddenly pecking away at him at once, now that the fatigue had completely stripped his defenses. He knew this was hardly the time, but at the moment all he could think of was trying to gain some distance, just briefly.   
    He didn't know how much time had passed before he realized in the haze of his frustration he'd paid no mind to where he was going. He was snapped him back into awareness of his surroundings when his breath caught at a sudden, unexpected step down. The hallway he was in now was very much like the ones they had been led down to their room earlier; but the specific pastiche of decor was unfamiliar. Surely the castle wasn't so large he could truly get lost, but all the same he was uncertain where he was. Had he gone down some stairs? Up them?   
     A quick glance out a window showed him mostly the brown stubble of moor, but no sign of the courtyard. He must've come around the other side of the building somehow. It did seem slightly lower than the view from their room, so simply aiming to go downwards to the main floor seemed more reasonable and desirable than going back the way he'd come.   
    There was, in fact, a door cracked open at the far end of the hall, and a narrow stone stair was visible beyond. Well, then.   
    Two thirds of the way down, the narrow hall was flanked by matching sets of mounted armor, of the type any respectable nobleman was expected to own, in spite of being totally frivolous and useless. So they still stood vigilant and hollow about the homes of assorted descendants, blades constantly at the ready for some absurdly impractical and improbable battle. As John was about to pass between the two empty knights, a building sense of unease made him halt, even though he felt quite childish; both for his sudden suspicion and his eagerness to wander off alone in an uncertain circumstance.   
    They were just mounted suits of armor, surely; steel and blackened rivets, a bit of rust creeping in like mold and dust like a soft coating of snow. And yet, they gave him a feeling that he remembered well; one he had experienced far too often but was best left unnamed. It was enough to make him lay his hand on his gun, an old and automatic motion triggered by an instinct from the past. It was the sense of something disjointed about the world, something undefinably, subtly off. It was the way the air stopped breathing a split second before all hell broke loose, too late to be a warning and too sharp to be forgotten.    
    In this context, he had no idea what to make of it; but then, he had little time to consider. He was about to shake off his foolish anxiety and continue on when a cry came from behind him: "duck!"  
    Any soldier worth his salt - that is to say, any soldier who survives - knows to duck first and ask questions later. John threw himself to the floor just in time, feeling the swift breeze generated by a sword swinging just above his head and a clatter of metal. On the way down, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a ginger girl wielding - well, whatever type of weapon could possibly be made out of a colander, a vacuum cleaner, and an iPhone. A wave of intense heat passed over him and then there was a shattering sort of noise, a howl, and a clattering of metal shrapnel raining down. A rivet pinged off the back of his head.   
    "All clear now! Oof, and just in time, too! Afraid your gun wouldn't have been very helpful… tends to just ricochet, you know…"   
    John cautiously removed his hands from behind his head, glancing around him for any further immediate threat before he pushed up off the floor. He surveyed the scene; there was a pile of scorched scrap where the knights had been. Some of it was still slightly on fire, licked by pale green flame. He carefully brushed shards of steel from his sleeve as casually as he could manage, then turned around to face the source of the warning and,, apparently, the rescue. A lanky man stepped forward, grinning in a lopsided fashion that looked ever so much like a dog expectant for a treat. A puppy for certain, as he looked to be only awkwardly clambering on to twenty-five.   
    "…who the hell are you people?" John had just been - apparently - attacked by an inanimate object and was in the mood to get straight to the point.       
    The girl holding the makeshift firearm tossed her head, and subsequently her long red hair, to the side in disapproval. When her companion opened his mouth, she elbowed him in the side. Her pointed glare indicated she thought it was only polite the rescued should start the introductions, not the rescuers.   
    John frowned heavily, then pulled himself into the best position of attention he was prepared to manage with slightly singed hair. “Doctor John Watson,” he said authoritatively. It was the one thing he currently felt certain of.   
    "I'm the Doctor, Doctor. Pleasure to meet you!" The other man thrust his hand forward, but John still wasn't quite ready to process social niceties while covered in bits of a suit of armor that had just tried to kill him, and didn’t accept.   
    Instead he stared dubiously at the gawky figure, who had withdrawn his hand after a long pause and now was shifting his weight from foot to foot in an anxious sort of dance, uneasily adjusting his bow tie. A bow tie. He was dressed like a college librarian of the sort who lurked behind tall bookcases and thick glasses and became quite flustered if anyone actually spoke to them.   
    "Uh…huh…" John said, turning to the ginger girl, who was leaning her hodgepodge weapon against her shoulder and looking very pleased with herself. She was tall and lean, slightly less of both than her friend, but equally as young; and reminded him uncannily of a girl he’d been in primary school with who used to punch him in the stomach for no reason he’d ever been able to discern. “…and I suppose you're a doctor, too?”  
     "Just Amy. But I've got an A-level in monsters." She smiled sweetly at him, then gave him a cheeky wink.   
     _Well_ , John reflected amongst the wreckage of his stunned mind, _at least one thing is properly Scottish about the place_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter for the Readers Who Waited. Rest assured there were very good reasons for the delay, and that it's not without reason I write poor John severely sleep deprived. It also has to do with the end of this chapter being one of the first three scenes written, before there was anything like an outline. I wasn't sure whether I could still fit it in to the story, but couldn't bring myself to scrap it either, so there was finagling to salvage it. 
> 
> In "Sherlock" the show, John's "battlefield moments" are quite underplayed, which is of course a choice of subtlety. The same goes for Sherlock thinking of John as an extension of himself, but also as tool; maybe more like a samurai sword... I don't know that Sherlock really thinks about how much he relies on John consciously, or the precise nature of their relationship; or that John is aware how much of the battlefield followed him home. But as outside observers, maybe we shine a light in places they can't see.


End file.
